


Stories with Missing Pages

by shieldings



Series: Crunch Down On This Bad Bad Content [4]
Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series), Teen Titans (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types, Teen Titans: The Judas Contract (2017)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Backstory, Character Study, Dark, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Gaslighting, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Femslash, Puberty Sucks, Slow Burn, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-02-22 09:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 82,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13164447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shieldings/pseuds/shieldings
Summary: Raven’s hair falls wildly across the cushions, shining like tangled satin ribbons.  She breathes softly and evenly, but it’s her voice, in those breaths.  Quiet and solemn, but somehow innocent.  Her eyelashes are long and dark and flutter with the REM movements beneath her eyelids, and it’s hypnotic.There’s no clear explanation as to why Tara wants to touch those half-opened lips and see if they’re as soft as they look.  That’s probably just a side effect of being tired.It’s easier to sleep when someone is next to you, of course.





	1. Special Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU is officially out of my control. 
> 
> This isn't the finale!! Here is a secret: I need to understand everything about everyone always, so I realized that I needed to know what was going on in Tara's head during "No Room for Softness" and "Emotional Miasma." I want to move ahead in the story, so I'm making this one fairly short and quick as compared to the others. This is gonna be in three parts. **All the warnings from the other two stories apply to this one.**
> 
> The first part takes place very early in "No Room for Softness," but it takes a lot more time since Tara is a teenage runaway with a lot of weird shit directly behind her. Slade has weird shit going on too, but it's not happening at the same time as the story, so he got to resolve everything fairly quickly bc he's a grown-ass adult who is a disaster but he doesn't have problems with food insecurity and maintaining basic mental and physical integrity lol.
> 
> Second part is going to be chunkier, building up the apprentice/mentor relationship and the weird sexual situation going on, more insight into Tara's relationship with both of her parents, and with her half-brothers.
> 
> Third part is Terraven to the core ride or die. Mostly die. But, anyway, it's going to be the situation leading up to the "current" point, which is where the other two stories taking place at this point end. 
> 
> There might be _another_ bit taking place at this point in the timeline from the POV of a certain Joseph William Wilson, confirmed Mama's boy, but most likely that won't happen and we'll just get along with the damn plot.

 

“Tara Markov, I presume.”

 

The person looming over her in the sandy cave seems completely unafraid of her, and this is pissing her off. Of course, that looming person is a good four heads taller than her, heavily armed, and built like a damn tank. His one-eyed mask is obscuring his face, so she has no idea what his expression is. She suspects he's laughing at her.

 

“You can't make me go home,” she says. Involuntarily, she steps backwards. Her heart is racing, but she knows that if she looks afraid, she's already lost. “I'll kill you,” she says, as calmly as she can muster. She digs the palm of her hand into a sheet of sandstone. It gives in with a grating creak, and she prepares for whatever is coming next.

 

Instead of responding the way he _should_ (that is, attacking her and then getting his ribs cracked by a big-ass flying rock), the stranger takes another slow step forward, as though he's approaching a wild animal. Tara can't move back any more. He has her cornered, and she's terrified and she's furious and she's ready to do something horrifying to him and-- he pulls off his mask.

 

The man under the mask does not have a kind face, but he has a human one. The first thing she notices is his eyepatch, but for some reason, that's not the intimidating thing about him (the intimidating thing is that he's calm, while she's on the verge of falling apart). His hair is a very pale gray and his eye is a very pale blue. He has a goatee, trimmed obsessively neatly. The stranger reaches out a gloved hand, and she can't cringe away. Solemnly, he lays it on her shoulder, warm and heavy.

 

“They're gone,” he says.

 

Before she can respond, he turns around and walks away, through the tunnel she knows leads to the outside. All she can do is stare. Who's gone? That's a vague statement to make.

 

Either way, she's completely exhausted by the encounter. All she's eaten today is a Hostess cupcake she bought from a vending machine with five grimy quarters. Tara lets out a deep breath and slumps down onto the floor like a ragdoll. She can't afford to waste energy being confused. What matters is that nobody's killed her today, so she can find another cupcake tomorrow.

 

The next morning just before dawn, as she leaves the cave to make the brief trek to the city border and scope the local dumpsters for interesting leftovers, she finds three corpses just by the entrance, laid out like dead birds brought by a giant housecat. She recognizes them instantly, though their faces have been distorted somewhat by bone damage.

 

They're the bounty hunters her family had sent to catch her.

\---

It's been six weeks since Tara managed to successfully jam herself into a livestock carrier ship, safely hidden underneath two luckily mild-tempered goats. It's been four weeks and five days since Nikolai, the guy who cleaned up all the animal shit, caught her eating a handful of commercial goat feed. In the end, it was probably good that he found her, because commercial goat feed isn't the ideal diet for a growing girl.

 

They were already halfway across the Atlantic at that point, so it would be a waste of time to turn around and return her to Markovia. She'd spun up a story about how poor she was, and how she had to get out of the Old World to find her sister in America, and she was always a good liar, so Nikolai believed it and vouched for her. She was a cute little girl. Who could hate her?

 

It's been three weeks since Tara hit land. The day after she stumbled off the boat and into the nearest public pool, the bounty hunters showed up. Tara had recognized that she was special, both scientifically and potentially in combat, but she'd hoped that she wasn't _that_ special. If her dear, dear Papa thought the best way to bring her home was with armored gunmen, then there wasn't a chance in hell that she'd let them take her.

 

She'd had two encounters with them before: first, near the harbor, where they had been waiting for her. They'd tried to negotiate that time, but she knew better than to listen to them. Every adult she'd met since losing her mother had been a liar, and she wasn't so stupid that she couldn't recognize concealed weapons. Tara bombarded them with coal from a shipping crate, and ran into a crowd of nauseated, sunburned people returning from a cruise.

 

The second encounter was a lot scarier. They'd caught her by surprise as she was trying to sneak out of the YMCA (which had free showers, if you knew the right story to tell), and actually managed to grab her up off the ground. After spending about forty-five seconds in a blind angry panic, she fucked around a bit with the concrete of the sidewalk, subtly enough that it could be mistaken for wear-and tear, but badly enough that it made the man holding her lose his balance and drop her.

 

It was after that encounter that she'd decided it wasn't safe to live right in the city. Besides being an easy target for thieves and scavengers and general bullies, she suspected that the city was where they'd look for her. After all, it was civilized and had plenty of food. So, instead of making a niche for herself in a place where she could be found, she retreated to a cave on the outskirts and turned into a hermit. At the very least, hermits are too far away for gunmen to shoot at.

 

And now, those gunmen are lined up neatly like new pencils on a school desk, eyes open with round bullet holes in their forehead. Each hole is so precise and perfect that it looks almost fake: slightly above the eyebrows, right in the center. She doesn't want to turn them over to see the exit wounds. She doesn't know much about guns, but she's certain that they're grisly. 

\--- 

“The hell are you doing, blondie?” asks the tall, angular boy behind the sandwich store. He has red-brown hair, a swelling bruise on his cheek, and a lord-like air about him. He's about her age, but he looks like he's seen hell, and he's looking at her the way that someone would look roadkill: the kind so old that it stops looking like anything, and it's just bones and fur and pink and gray.

 

“They threw away their bread,” Tara says, holding up her plastic grocery bag, which is full of three-day-old sandwich rolls. “It got stale.”

 

“Duh,” he says, stepping forward. “But what the hell are _you_ doing here?”

 

“Taking the bread home with me,” she says, hoping that she sounds confident.

 

“Nah,” he says. That's when she starts running, but she's not very fast, especially with the holes in her sneakers and her throbbing headache. She tries to outsmart him, change the sidewalk a little so he'll fall over, but all that does is throw her off balance. She slips on a slimy piece newspaper and falls on her bag of dubiously-obtained sandwich bread.

 

“Get off that,” the boy says. He doesn't give her any time to. He just picks her up by the back of her shirt and rolls her off. Then, as if she's done something wrong, he kicks her in the ribs. His shoes have holes in them too, she realizes. Why is he so much faster than her, then? “Don't come back here,” he says. “I don't know what your deal is, but this is my store, 'kay?”

 

“It's not,” Tara coughs. “It's a franchise.” This earns her another kick in the ribs.

 

“Cute,” he says as he picks up the bag of squished bread, but he doesn't look like he thinks it's cute. “Go be a bitch somewhere else.”

 

He glares at her until she stands up, but her knees and hands are raw from the sudden impact with the concrete. She skulks off to find a new scavenging ground, and mentally crosses out the sandwich shop as a potential source. She hopes that there's at least one unclaimed back alley within walking distance of her cave. If that doesn't work, maybe she'll have to find one with a smaller guardian, someone she could take down in a fight.

 

It wasn't ideal, but Tara knows her powers give her an advantage. This incident was an anomaly. She just has to be smarter in the future. If the world is going to kick her in the ribs, she's going to twist its arm until it says “uncle.”

 

Her knees are bleeding, and she doesn't have any band-aids or iodine. It doesn't matter. She's tough.

\--- 

_For a long time, it was just them: Mama and her baby, taking on the world. Mama wasn't always in the best mood, but Tara loved her all the same; even the days when Mama would spend all day on the threadbare couch, watching reruns of reality cooking shows without ever standing to feed herself or her daughter. On those days, Tara knew that their jobs had switched, so she did her best to keep things from becoming chaotic._

 

_The goldfish crackers were on a shelf low enough for her to reach, and there was a footstool by the sink, so she was able to handle most things without a hitch. She even knew how to start the coffee machine, and sometimes there were grounds left behind, so it worked. She would comb her mother's unwashed hair and sing TV jingles in silly voices, and usually they wouldn't go more than a couple of days at a time without real food or hygiene or conversation._

 

_On her good days, Mama would do what needed to be done: she'd pay the rent, buy groceries, and change burnt-out lightbulbs. Tara would follow behind her dutifully, clinging to her sleeves or her skirt or whatever loose thing was dangling from her that day. She wouldn't let her mother leave her sight, because she was pretty sure that the woman wouldn't be able to survive without somebody to take care of her._

 

_She voiced her worries, and her mother laughed as though what she'd said was cute. “Baby, you don't have to worry about me,” she said. “I can handle myself pretty well.”_

_  
They both knew that was a lie. Children can't call their parents liars, though. It's disrespectful and unkind to boot._

 

_When Tara started kindergarten, she became very anxious. Her teacher, a round woman with fluffy hair, told her that her mother would be back to pick her up in the afternoon, and that there wasn't anything to worry about. Tara spent the whole day imagining various terrible things happening: her mother becoming distracted and being hit by a car, or choking on a jawbreaker, or somehow becoming lost on the way home. She knew she was supposed to be honest, so she expressed all these fears to her teacher, who just laughed and told her those things didn't happen to adults._

 

_Mama didn't come to pick her up in the afternoon. One-by-one, all of her classmates waved goodbye to each other and walked off hand-in-hand with their mothers or fathers or older siblings. Tara just sat by the castle-shaped bookshelf, chin resting on her knees, certain that some unknown disaster had taken place because she hadn't been there to stop it._

 

_It wasn't until sunset that her mother appeared, with her hair pulled back into a greasy ponytail and a miserable expression on her face._

 

“ _Baby, baby, I'm so sorry,” was what she said as she scooped her daughter up off the floor. “I was stupid, I couldn't get myself to leave the room, I'm so sorry, baby.”_

 

_Tara just wrapped her arms around her mother's neck and clung on for dear life._

 

_For the next three days, Mama showed up on time, but on Friday, she showed up too early, in the middle of storytime, and said that Tara had a doctor's appointment. She knew that was a lie. They didn't go to the doctor; Mama said that doctors were just drug dealers with cleaner coats, and Tara didn't know what that meant, but she recognized the tone of voice._

 

“ _Today, the story was about a wolf who followed a little girl and learned her secrets and swallowed her up,” Tara said. “I didn't hear the ending.”_

 

“ _A man comes and chops it open and lets her out,” Mama replied. “The little girl ends up fine.”_

 

_Instead of the doctor's office, they went out for ice cream at McDonald's, and Mama told Tara that they wouldn't have lamps at home for a little while: not until that month's papa-check came in. They went candle-shopping at the Five-Below. It was a wonderful afternoon._

\---

When she returns from her dumpster-diving excursion, the bodies are gone. There is a faint red smear on the ground, which she hastily covers up with loose sand. This confirms her suspicions: the man who had touched her shoulder was the one who'd killed her pursuers, and he wanted her to know about it. Why? Was it personal? If he's American (and she suspects he is, based on his accent), why would he have something against a trio of Eastern European bounty hunters? Why would he even tell her they were gone? Why had he known her name?

 

All evidence points to him having killed them for her. For some reason, this makes her heart beat a little faster.

\---

The stranger comes back, one night. She hears footsteps, and hides in one of the many handy crevices near the opening of her cave (at this point, it's  _hers_ , not only because she's deposited her sparse belongings inside, but because she knows its tunnels and its secrets and has bent them to match her wishes). The stranger doesn't look around for her. He's masked again, but this time he's carrying a paper bag filled with something. He places it at the entrance and leaves.

 

After she's good and sure he's gone, she gathers it up in her arms (it's worryingly heavy) and without checking, scurries back into the recesses of her cave. She crouches, sets it on the ground in front of her, and peers inside. It's a half-gallon bottle of spring water and a variety pack of protein bars.

 

She almost starts crying.

\--- 

The stranger repeats this ritual several times. Each time, he silently leaves a bag, usually filled with water and some kind of high-energy convenience food, and then walks off into the distance without waiting to watch her take it. Each time, Tara watches him carefully, trying to figure out exactly what he's doing.

 

It continues for weeks. She counts on her fingers: every four days, he shows up, leaves a bag, and returns to wherever he came from. It's a wonderful feeling, knowing that there's a rhythm and rhyme to things. Tara is fed up with stories that have missing pages. And with this consistency, she can feel herself becoming stronger. She's less shaky when she stands, she's less tired, and her head is clearer. When she plays with her powers, she has more control over them. She hardly ever drops rocks on her own head anymore.

 

Secretly, she dubs her benefactor “Mr. Powerbar,” which is probably a disrespectful thing to call someone, but a product with a name like “Powerbar” has a way of sticking to the inside of a person's head. It's only one of a few different things he's left her, but it's funny-sounding. She's grateful, definitely. Even if sticky soy rectangles are kind of boring, they're a thousand times better than scrounging around in back alleys hoping to get lucky. The only question nagging at the back of her head is “why?”

\--- 

It's raining. Mr. Powerbar, masked and intimidating as always, has left his offering and is turning around to leave. Tara is watching, as always, but the rocks are slippery, too slippery for her to hold on to even when she twists them and molds them. When she tries to back off into the shadows to wait for him to disappear, she can't get a grip, and she crashes to the ground.

 

He turns and looks at her, and she lies defeated for a second, scraped and wet and frightened. She stares up at him and she can hear her own blood rushing and it's louder than rain against sandstone. She scrambles to her feet and runs as fast as she can into the safe darkness of her cave. She's breathing unevenly, like a dying animal. Of course he knows that she comes out to collect whatever he leaves, but now he's seen her, how desperate she is, and it's humiliating.

 

The answer to the question “why” is probably pity more than anything, and that makes her taste acid in her mouth.

\--- 

_Special, special, there was magic in her blood._

 

_Tara was eight years old, and Mama wasn't around anymore._

 

_She got to ride in an airplane, and she got to see what clouds look like from above._

 

_From up in the sky, clouds looked like endless snowfields over rolling and misty hills. Tara knew that if she could somehow fit herself through the tiny smudged window with its double-panes of something harder than glass, she wouldn't be able to resist that temptation. Clouds are a trick: they look solid and soft, like lightly spun cotton, as though you could fall into them and breath them and wander about leaving canyons in your wake, but the truth is that they're cold and wet and if you crawl through an airplane's window and into the clouds, you'll tumble down and down and down, and you'll be so cold that you'll be made of ice, and you'll shatter into a million pieces in a field of yellow farmland down below._

 

_That was what she thought about during the ride. She wearing a stiff denim jumper and and a pink turtleneck shirt, and apparently she looked precious. She felt like shit, but children aren't supposed to say “shit” in front of adults._

 

_Tara was a princess, apparently. The papa from the papa-checks lived in a castle and had a queen, and had two princes for children. And one of those princes had magic in his blood, and so did Tara. It was a fairy tale, but Tara didn't want to be a princess. She wanted to be a trickster: a cat in fine leather boots announcing the arrival of the Marquis of Carabas. After all, the trickster could be a devil or an angel. It got to choose._

 

_Papa wasn't handsome, but he looked like a king. He smiled awkwardly at her, and his queen spoke in the sweetest words but Tara could see her heart breaking, and she hated her for it. Two princes with sashes across their chests greeted her politely, smiled like little boys smile, and left as soon as they were allowed, because they didn't want to be in the room with her._

 

“ _Special, special,” was what they all said, in lovely accents. “Superhuman, metahuman, more-than-human.”_

 

_Tara couldn't understand the language they whispered in, and she knew they knew she couldn't. Instead of asking them to speak English, or asking them to teach her to speak like them, she smashed vases and tore up flowerbeds. She wanted them to yell at her and she wanted them to want her to understand how angry they were._

 

“ _Special, special,” was what they kept saying, instead._

 

_Dr. Jace didn't have an accent, and she spoke kindly enough. “This might hurt,” she would say, and “Please try to focus,” and “Lay your hand on this and just think about how it feels.”_

 

“ _Drug dealer in a clean coat,” Tara said._

 

“ _Special,” Dr. Jace said, and she laughed._

_\---_

She becomes courageous, like a cat in leather boots. She doesn't have any shoes right now (her canvas sneakers have worn through), but she thinks she has the cunning. Tara wants answers, because she's fed up with being confused. She doesn't want to be a neutral force anymore. She wants to do something, anything. Being passive is _boring_.

 

So she becomes courageous. One night, instead of slipping or retreating, she steps out of the shadows to speak to Mr. Powerbar in person. He's already laid down the paper bag, but he hasn't turned to leave yet. She steps forward, her fists clenched. She can't look him in the face, because she's stupid and frightened, but she still speaks.

 

“Why,” is what she says, and it's enough.

 

He doesn't answer, and he doesn't move. They stand there in silence. Her blood is rushing. All of her animal instincts are telling her to run away from this unknown variable, a creature clearly powerful enough to kill her that has for some reason chosen not to. Every muscle in her body is pulled tight. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she raises her chin proudly and meets his pale blue eye. She can't see the rest of his face, but something like satisfaction flickers across that eye.

 

“You're a special girl, Tara,” he says.

 

And cold fury washes over her. Special, special. A special girl, not worth enough to love, but worth enough to keep.

 

“I noticed,” she says quietly. She turns and retreats, slowly. He doesn't follow her.

 

She spends about an hour calming down, and when she comes back to the entrance, the bag is there, but he isn't. She gathers it up in her arms and takes it to the nook where she's laid out her things. Today, it's a gallon of water, a bag of salmon jerky, and a box of fiber cereal with a bunch of vitamins listed on the side.

 

Several days later, Mr. Powerbar reappears, holding a brown paper bag. Tara watches him carefully from her perch. He doesn't see her, and she doesn't greet him. He looks around, waits several minutes. She continues to watch, but won't come down. She keeps her dignity.

 

He doesn't put the bag on the ground. He turns around and leaves with it still in his arms. A jolt of panic surges through her body-- she's used up almost all of her previous offering. She'd been stupid, stupid, she should have been frugal, she shouldn't have assumed that things would be consistent--

 

But her pride keeps her from chasing after him. If she's “special” to him as well, then he's just another selfish adult. She shouldn't have let herself start needing him.

 

She returns to her scrounging lifestyle. The tall boy behind the sandwich store says “what did I tell you,” so she kicks him in the balls, grabs the expired pastrami he drops, and runs as fast as she can. The next day, he finds her before she even gets to the alley, kicks her between the legs (which still hurts plenty for girls, she learns), knocks her to the ground and spits on her before leaving. For some reason, the spitting is the worst part.

 

One day, she finds an alley behind an Italian restaurant that seems to be unsupervised, so she takes some fully-cooked, mostly not-gross leftovers from the trash and scurries home before anybody can find her and kick her in the crotch.

 

The next day, she comes back and a sleepy busboy in a white apron says, “Stop breaking the locks!”

 

“They were broken when I found them!” she says, and then she kicks dirt in his face like she's a sports player on TV, and she doesn't come back.

 

Each consecutive day that she fails, Tara can feel herself deteriorating. Now that she's had a taste of regularity, it's like her body is angry at her. “Why isn't there water anymore?” it seems to complain. “I won't run if you won't give me anything!”

 

The worst thing is that it seems that despite her powers, _literally everybody else_ has her outranked in terms of physical capabilities. She can climb, but when she falls it hurts her more. She can run, but not fast enough to avoid being caught. She can fight, but she can only fight dirty, so if her opponent is up for fighting dirty too, she'll still lose.

 

Mr. Powerbar keeps coming back, faithfully. He keeps looking around, and Tara keeps watching him, and he keeps leaving without giving her anything. Even if it kills her, she wants to win, and the only way to win is to be harder. The first one of them to give up will lose: if he stops showing up, she wins (but she still loses), and if she shows her face, he'll know she needs him, and that's something she can't let happen. Tara is a survivor. She can handle herself.

 

Weeks pass. Everything is becoming more difficult. Her arms are weak like kindling, and her head is foggy. She knows that this must be what dying feels like. She keeps on leaving at dawn, and searching for opportunities until the people start to come out of their houses, because then they'll notice her and she doesn't want to think about what that means.

 

Everything about her aches.

 

The sandwich shop is still the place closest to her cave, so despite everything, she still peeks into the alley and hopes that the tall boy isn't there. Once or twice, she manages to sneak away with a bit of edible garbage, and sometimes she eats it right there by the dumpster, crouched like a rat. After all, if it's gone by the time he arrives, he can't take it.

 

One day, the tall boy catches her as she tears into a discarded half-sandwich with gravel in the mayo.

 

“What the fuck do I have to do to make you stop?” he asks. His old bruise has healed, but he has new ones. Somebody's grabbed his arm very hard, and he has a black eye.

 

“What?” she asks. “Was this yours? I didn't notice your name on it.”

 

“You don't even know my name,” he says, and with one hand he grabs her by the front of the shirt, and he clenches his other hand into a fist.

 

“Nobody does,” she says, and she smiles as sweetly as she can. He decks her good, right in the eye. Twinsies.

 

“Why me?” he asks, lowering her slightly, but still keeping a firm grip on her shirt. “Why do you keep on coming back to my fucking store?”

 

“Hungry,” she says.

 

“You got a thing for me or something?” he smirks, and the tone of his voice changes a little. It gets a little more mocking, but there's something else.

 

“What?” she asks. That hadn't even occurred to her.

 

“You keep showing up because you like me,” he says, still almost laughing, but now he's looking her up and down like he's assessing something. “Thought you were just a bitch, but you've got some kind of puppy love thing going on.”

 

“I don't!” she says, struggling to free herself from his grip. “I just want some damn bread!”

 

“Tell you what,” the boy says. “Since you're sweet on me, I'll be nice to you.”

 

“How about you let go of me, then?” she asks.

 

“I'll give you a roll a day,” he says. “And if there's something really good, I'll split it.”

 

Tara's heart almost skips a beat in excitement, but she knows better than to take anything at face value. “What else?” she asks.

 

“You can be my girl,” he says.

 

“What?” she vaguely understands what he means, so she shouldn't ask. She should just say “no.” But she's stupid, she's always been stupid, and she'll always be stupid, so she doesn't.

 

“Before you get the roll, we do stuff together,” he says. “Like, go under each other's shirts, or handjobs or you blow me or something.”

 

“Under each other's shirts?” she asks, because she doesn't know what those other things mean. She probably should. She's been thirteen for three months now, and that's almost an adult. “Like, a sex thing?”

 

The boy scoffs. “Yeah, like a sex thing. You can be my girlfriend. That's what you want, right?”

 

It is absolutely not what she wants. She really doesn't want to put her hands under his shirt, and she doesn't even like having his hands _over_ her shirt when he picks her up by it. But at the same time, the idea of free food with no fighting involved is so enticing...

 

“How about it?” he asks, almost nervously. “Like, we don't have to go too fast. I know you're probably gonna be shy about it or something, but, I mean, you like me and you're hungry, right? So this probably sounds pretty good to you.”

 

“You'd be giving me food,” she says, thinking out loud. “But since none of us have money, it would be like paying me. So we'd do sex stuff, and you'd pay me. Isn't that being a whore?”

 

He laughs, awkwardly. “I mean, I guess. I want something, and you want something, so we cooperate. That's just how stuff works, right?”

 

“I'm not a whore,” she says, and now she's offended enough to stop considering the offer. She yanks back, and his grip on her shirt is loose enough now that he lets go easily. She brushes herself off, even though she knows she's filthy, and tries to look as haughty as she can. “If you want a girl to go under your shirt, find someone else.”

 

“Your choice, bitch,” he says, shrugging. “Get away from my shop.”

 

And she does. Her eye is throbbing, and she knows it's going to show later. For the sake of her pride, she makes the decision never to come back to the boy's alley. Come to think of it, she never did learn what his name was.

\---

Tara leaves her cave both in mornings and evenings now, because that doubles her chance of getting lucky, and she really, really needs luck. She's kind of afraid that she's going to fall asleep and not wake up _(Mama)_ if she doesn't shove as much as she can find into her face, and she is having a difficult time finding anything.

 

Mr. Powerbar is still showing up every four days, holding a bag of precious supplies, and he's still leaving nothing. Why is he doing this? Is he mocking her now? Is he trying to lure her out? Why? What game is he playing?

 

A gang of kids younger than her beat the shit out of her and take the armful of candy bars she got by busting the glass front of a vending machine. The oldest one couldn't have been more than ten. They laugh while they leave, talk to each other in high sweet voices.

 

Why won't he give up? Hasn't she made her point? She doesn't want his help. She doesn't need his help. She's surviving, and she's getting stronger (that's a lie).

 

This time, a man with shiny teeth offers her lunch at a diner if she gets into his car, and she's ninety-nine percent sure that he's going to murder her and wear her skin as underwear, but she still considers it for a few seconds, because she feels like her bones are about to break and there are cracks at the corners of her mouth. The man tells her that she's such a pretty girl, and that she deserves a good day, and she wants to get into that sedan with its heated air and its faux-velvet seats and let whatever happens happen, because she thinks her bloodstream is drying out. It takes all her willpower to run away.

 

Fucking Mr. Powerbar is still offering her food and water, and she knows that he doesn't want to hurt her, because he had the chance before and he didn't. Tara doesn't need saving. Nobody can control her, nobody can predict her, she knows that within a few days, her body will eat itself up from the inside and she will be as hollow as a cicada shell.

 

“I'll do whatever,” she repeats as she walks slowly and shakily towards the tall boy's alley. “I'll be your girl and I'll blow your job. I want to do that. It's my favorite thing.”

 

He's not there that day. Instead, the shop's owner is there, and he says, “are you the little shit that keeps going through the trash?” and Tara shakes her head and runs away as fast as she can, and she keeps falling, and every sound in her head is echoing.

 

Mr. Powerbar shows up the next night, and she greets him and smiles as sweetly as she can. He nods. Instead of placing the bag on the ground, he hands it to her directly, and it's so heavy that she almost collapses, but now she has it and it's _hers_ and fuck everything, Tara's got a gallon of water and her own jerky or whatever the hell is in the bag this time, and she's going to live.

 

She smiles up at him, and there are almost tears in her eyes (but not quite), and he just nods again, and walks away.

 

The world is at peace again.

 

She eats slowly and carefully, because she knows from experience that if she doesn't, she'll throw up and then everything will have been wasted. She goes to sleep and has peaceful dreams.

 

She doesn't die.

\---

The next time Mr. Powerbar shows up, he sits on a rock with the bag in his lap. There are several rocks at the entrance, and most of them were there when she found the cave, but this is one she put there. For some reason, she's proud of that.

 

She realizes he's waiting for her, so she jumps down from the shadowy nook she'd been perching in, grabs the bag, and stares at him for a second. He tilts his head, as if he's asking her a question. If he weren't wearing a mask all the time, he'd be easier to understand.

 

She realizes he wants her to sit with him. She doesn't like this. He's already made her look at him _twice_. How much more does he expect? All the same, she really wants that bag of food. She runs up to him, grabs it in her arms, and sits on a rock as far away from him as she can. If he makes any sudden movements, she'll have plenty of time to respond.

 

He stares at her intently, which makes her a little nervous. She reaches into the bag and finds beef jerky, which is one of her favorites, and opens the package. He watches her eat. If he wants her to share, there's no fucking way. It's _hers_. He gave it to her, and there are no take-backs in nature, and Tara is a wild thing.

 

Maybe she should make conversation. She says the first thing that comes to her head that doesn't involve starvation or considering prostitution. She needs a common ground. What do they have in common?

 

Family issues. Her family sent bounty hunters after her, and then he killed those bounty hunters. That's what they have in common. That's a good subject, probably.

 

“Haven't heard from them since summer,” she says. It's almost November. She knows because of the TV screens in shop windows, and the cool, but not quite cold, air. “I don't think they're gonna try finding me again.”

 

He just nods. She knows he can speak. She's heard him say exactly eleven words.

 

“I bet they think I was the one who did it,” she says. She pauses, wonders if she's being clear enough. She hasn't really had an actual conversation since the sandwich boy incident, and even that was more of a failed business transaction. “Killed them, I mean. The bounty hunters.” What should she say next? Should she mention that the other “they” means her family? Is that rude? Instead, she just says, “Thanks.”

 

“My pleasure,” Mr. Powerbar says in his deep smooth voice. That makes thirteen words, now. Progress.

 

“You're feeding me because of my powers, right?” she asks. That's the elephant in the room. She's “special,” and therefore warrants “special” treatment.

 

“There are hundreds of metahumans in this country, and I've met most of them,” he says. Wait, what? “But you're the one with the most potential.”

  
What does that mean? Potential could mean almost anything. Does he think she should join one of those hero organizations that are so popular in the US, like the JLA or something? The JLA doesn't like killing, though, so he can't be affiliated with them. Does he mean as a power source? Tara has heard scary stories of unlucky metahumans being hooked up to big reactors and used as living batteries. Do her powers have that kind of potential? She hopes not. If she were actually good at using them, she could probably weaponize them. She knows that was the reason her father and Dr. Jace were so excited about them. She could just drop a fucking avalanche on someone whoever was controlling her didn't like.

 

That's why she doesn't let people control her. She wants to be the one making decisions about avalanches.

 

She should probably leave. She gathers her supplies up in her arms, and begins to walk away. Maybe she should say goodbye. She looks over her shoulder, and instead of doing what she should, she asks “What should I call you?”

 

“My name is Slade Wilson,” he says. “Slade” isn't a first name she's heard before, but “Wilson” is frighteningly normal. However, it suits him better than “Mr. Powerbar.”

 

“Mr. Wilson, then,” she says.

 

“Just 'Slade',” he says. That's unusual. Adults usually don't like it when children call them by their first names. But, then again, everything about the situation is unusual. It's almost funny, if she thinks about it enough.

 

She smiles at him, and she knows things will be different from now on. Now that she knows his name, they're friends, in a way. How long has it been since she's had any kind of friend, even a strange adult one? Has she ever had one?

 

She almost giggles, but she successfully suppresses it and runs off into the winding tunnels of her cave.

\---

_Mama said that it was tough out in the world. “When people look at me, I know they know what a mess I am,” she would say. “It's not hard to tell when people are laughing at you inside.”_

 

_Tara would just nod, even though she didn't quite understand._

 

“ _I don't think most people are bad,” Mama said one day as they looked for microwave dinners in the grocery store. “But there are enough bad ones out there that we should be on the watch for them.”_

 

“ _Right,” Tara said, squeezing her mother's hand. “Can we get raspberry jelly, after this?”_

 

“ _We shouldn't get anything in a jar right now. I've heard stories about terrorists opening them up and putting anthrax in them, and I don't want to risk it.” Mama paused for a second. “We can get cranberry sauce instead. I don't think they can get into tin cans.”_

 

“ _'Kay. Can I pick the ice cream today?”_

 

“ _Sweetie, you always pick the most expensive ones,” Mama said, frustrated but warm. “Only from the store-brand ones, okay?”_

 

“ _Yeah.” Tara nodded. She picked Neapolitan, because it was three kinds in one box._

 

_Mama always watched the news channels that focused on disasters and murders and how many awful things there were in the world. Apparently, famous people had more bad things happen to them, so Mama was determined not to become famous._

 

“ _I've already done enough to get myself into the public eye,” she explained. “So if anyone asks who your daddy is, tell them he died in a wildfire, okay?”_

 

“ _Okay.” Tara really didn't know who her daddy was, and she didn't care. Whoever or whatever he was, she was pretty sure that having someone else around would just stress her mother out. Tara was the only one who could take care of her, and she couldn't handle another responsibility._

 

_If he died in a wildfire, he'd be ashes, and the ashes would be blown away and they'd settle as dust on people's windowsills, and that was either gross or beautiful._

 

“ _My daddy turned to dust,” she said to a classmate who asked where he was. “He burnt up and he blew away.”_

 

_Tara's teacher asked Mama about it when she came to pick her daughter up. Mama just laughed and said, “aren't kids allowed to have imaginations these days?”_

 

_One day, a bird flew into the clean window, and fell dead to the ground. Tara thought about cartoons. She'd seen plenty of characters crash into walls and windows and paintings and fall down, and she'd seen them crushed flat by falling anvils and steamrollers, but they'd always gotten back up._

 

_The bird was a baby blue jay, probably. It still had some of its pinfeathers. On TV, it would have been fine. In real life, her teacher saw her staring at it, gasped, and quickly guided her over to the castle-shaped bookshelf. Tara was getting better at reading. She read “Little Red Riding Hood” again, and thought about the happy ending. If a happy ending was the bad guy getting disemboweled, but death was something that shouldn't be talked about, then what was she supposed to think?_

 

_She asked her mother why her teacher tried to hide the dead bird from her._

 

“ _People hide things,” her mother said, “that they don't want us to think about. She didn't want you to think about death.”_

_  
“Why?”_

 

“ _It made her sad, so she thought it would make you sad.”_

 

“ _That's stupid.”_

 

_Mama was quiet for a bit after that._

 

_The days when the papa-checks came in were always exorbitant. Mama admitted that she was no good with money. Whenever she got any, she would always spend it on something fun, and forget about buying food and electricity and hot water. But on the days when the checks came in, Tara got to go to the movies and the amusement park and one time to a fancy restaurant, where her mother became very anxious, and they had to leave._

 

_Of course, when Mama was upset Tara was upset, but she didn't know what it was they were upset about, so she asked._

 

“ _It was too small in there,” her mother said simply. “And the waiter was always coming back and asking questions. I didn't have answers for him, so I had to leave.”_

 

_They got McDonald's, and on the way home, Mama filled up the car's gas tank, which had been running on fumes for two days. Tara drew a picture of a dead blue jay, and her mother taped it to the wall._

 

_The next day, despite having plenty of money left over, Mama was miserable. “Why do you always think about death?” she asked Tara._

 

“ _I don't know,” Tara said. “It's just there.”_

 

“ _Don't be sad like me,” Mama said._

 

“ _I'm not sad,” Tara said. Should she be sad?_

 

“ _Your papa didn't love me,” Mama said._

 

“ _That's fine,” Tara said. “Because I love you, right?”_

 

_Mama's smile was forced. “Of course, Baby. But I loved him, and he just thought I was exciting.”_

 

“ _Did you get wound up around him?” Tara thinks of her mother's high-energy days, where she dances around the apartment and takes her on adventures._

 

“ _He only knew me when I was wound up,” Mama said. “And then when I wound down, he said I wasn't the same person.”_

 

“ _He was stupid, then,” Tara said hopefully. “I hate him.”_

 

“ _Shouldn't hate people, Baby.”_

 

“ _I hate him.”_

 

“ _I hate him, too, then.”_

 

_Tara braided her mother's hair and brought her a glass of orange juice, and her mother told her how nobody likes sad people, so it's important to pretend to be happy. The happier you are, the more people want to be around you._

 

“ _So if you spend a lot of time talking about sad things, they won't like you,” Tara said, thinking of the blue jay._

 

“ _That's it, sweetie,” her mother said, leaning her head over the back of the sofa. “So learn what's happy, and talk about those things instead.”_

 

_Tara never was able to figure out exactly what things were happy and what things weren't, so that was why people didn't like her, she figured._

_\---_

Slade keeps visiting, and each time she sees him, Tara becomes excited. She feels as though she's tamed a dangerous animal. After all, he was the one who killed those three men so horribly, but when he's with her, he's quiet and calm and sometimes he makes jokes that she doesn't get for a few seconds. Sometimes, he even takes off his mask, and she sees his human face.

 

He listens to her talk, and that's a nice feeling.

 

Unfortunately, even if she doesn't need to scavenge as much, she still needs to scavenge a little, and she's shitty at it, even when she's _not_ in the middle of dying. She can now fight off smallish groups of scary young children, but anybody taller than her can still kick her ass. Her powers are pretty much useless when she's cornered, and she gets cornered a lot.

 

Kids her own age or a little older are the worst. She thinks it's because they don't feel sorry for her. She's gotten some glares and creepy looks from adults, but none of them have actively tried to rob her or beat her up. Kids her own age see her as an equal, so they don't feel bad when they kick the shit out of her.

 

Thirteen is already almost grown up. What's going to happen when she loses her baby face and grows tits? Right now, she's hardly able to fight off scraggly homeless children her own age, and, despite being stronger than she was when she was starving, she's still pretty weak. Soon, it'll be the adults who are cornering her and taking her shit. And if she's weak-looking when she's older, the teenagers will also be after her, and maybe she'll be able to get away from a couple of them, but the roving gangs won't have any trouble knocking her down. They might even kill her.

 

She realizes that she can't live like this for much longer, and there's only one solution.

 

One night, when Slade arrives with his bag and his mask and his conversation, she stands right at the entrance instead of waiting for him to sit down.

 

“Teach me how to kill people,” she says.

 

She's certain that he's smiling beneath the mask.

 

This is where everything starts changing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some Notes:**  
>  Mama's bipolar and has some issues with paranoia. Sandwich Boy's name is Roderick, and he's at the bottom of the food chain in his abusive family (Father>>Mother>>Big Brother>>Roderick), so he tends to be a dick to anybody he can be a dick to, because his whole family is a dick to him. The busboy behind the Italian restaurant had been on stakeout. His name is Francis.
> 
> Dr. Jace probably means well, but you shouldn't experiment on children. 
> 
> Powerbars were invented in 1986 and Tara's arc in the comics was in '84, but I have some brand anachronisms already and I just list everything as being in the xx80s. As far as I know, the only available protein bar in '84 was Tiger's Milk, which is a hilarious name and sounds super-gross, but doesn't have the poetic rhythm of Powerbar. 
> 
> Because of this weird timeline shit, instead of the Vietnam War, Slade went to war with some Canadians Who Got Too Fresh And Live In A Canadian Jungle, mostly just because I think that's kind of funny
> 
>  **Up Next:**  
>  Somebody finds a very effective outlet for their general frustration with life and mistrust of the world, and that effective outlet is doing a violence. An adult behaves very unprofessionally and also illegally.


	2. Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each day, she moves a little closer to adulthood, and it kind of hurts, but that's how you get strong, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **OKAY SO THIS IS A TRIGGER WARNING THAT HAS A BIG ASS ON IT:** Very blatantly inappropriate relationship between an adult and a minor. Said minor does not realize exactly how inappropriate it is. Some violence and minor gore. Also, references to the reproductive habits of invertebrates (one of my friends will make constant sex jokes about everyone and everything but as soon as we get out of mammalian territory she gets squicked, so if anybody else has that issue, sorry about that).
> 
> Didn't post for a little while bc family stuff, finished up my med change (it appears my writing muscles are intact) and also got my wisdom teeth yanked. The dentist wouldn't even let me keep them. I was going to put them in one of those little necklace jars with some dried flowers and a cute label that said "4 Sorry Bastards"
> 
> Cameos are here
> 
> Changed to 4 chapters instead of three bc I want to have more time for Tara to develop feelings for Raven and more Markov Fambly Shit and also this chapter was already Too Fucking Long so 
> 
> Anyway enjoy the chapter i'm drinking writer's patented night beer

Tara is going to be a mercenary. A soldier of fortune, Slade tells her. It doesn't matter how she is right now, because she's brimming with possibilities. She's full of potential, even when she feels weak, and that potential is going to turn her into a deadly force of nature. She likes that idea. Nobody's ever kicked a thunderstorm in the ribs.

 

She's made an agreement. She's going to trust Slade, even when she's scared. She doesn't have to trust anyone else. Of her own volition, she is giving up some of her freedom, but that freedom came with starvation and isolation and constant anxiety. Until she's as strong as she can possibly be, she will follow orders and train. She'll be a warrior without a nation; her only master is Slade, and even he doesn't _really_ control her. When she's strong enough, she can be her own again.

 

Apprenticeship, specialized combat training, indentured servitude. Whatever it's supposed to be called, it sure sounds a lot better than being dead.

 

Slade lives in a compound a few miles out from the city. Apparently, it used to be a weapons manufacturing and testing facility, but it became too expensive to operate, and then it was too expensive to tear it down, so the owners were just happy that someone was willing to buy it. Every sound echoes and bounces: footsteps, talking, and possibly Tara's own heartbeat (although that might just be a trick of her nerves). It's all kind of spooky, but Tara supposes that Slade doesn't have time to care about aesthetics.

 

It's actually kind of exciting. She remembers when she arrived in Markovia. Despite her less-than-ideal circumstances, it had been fun to explore the castle and the gardens, counting bathrooms and bedrooms and trying to figure out how many people could fit in at once. This situation is pretty similar, if she thinks about it. She's pulled up her roots and moved to an unfamiliar place, to live with an adult who's interested in her potential as a metahuman. The only difference is that this time, she's the one making the decisions. It's pretty wonderful, actually.

 

The building has two floors, including the ground level, which is all concrete and steel and has been cleared of any valuable machinery that might have been lying around. It has an industrial-sized kitchen and what she thinks might have been a dining hall at some point, as well as two restrooms, which seem to be out of commission (both are equally gross, but one has urinals). The main room is huge, and mostly empty. There are the remains of a few unwanted, confusing machines that stand rusting and scattered across the floor, but it's otherwise flat and open. The discarded machinery reminds her of fossils: dead, ancient giants that can only be understood with a lot of guesswork.

 

At the very back, there's a locked door that she knows is an armory, because it was one of the first things Slade showed her when he brought her in. Its walls are lined with immaculately clean guns, and there are polished tables for the repair and upkeep of those guns. There's also a surprising amount of swords. Tara hadn't really thought swords were popular as weapons anymore, but Slade has a variety of different styles and weights. She wonders if he actually uses them or if they're just a hobby. He doesn't let her touch anything, not even the knife rack. “When you're ready,” he says, which is annoying, but fair enough.

 

The second floor is abandoned offices. Most of them are unlocked, and most of them are dusty and empty. She finds a few interesting spiders and a quarter, but nothing else. There's a functional bathroom (she tested the nozzles) with a gym-style shower in it, and a couple of doors that have been locked with some kind of calculator-keyboard thing. She figures those rooms are in use. Maybe one of them is Slade's bedroom. Does he sleep? Tara can't imagine him in such a vulnerable position. There are a couple of clearly lived-in areas, with cabinets and a gas stove and a slop sink. It seems like the bottom floor is just for running around in, because nothing there works.

 

One room is... strange. It has an electronic lock, more elaborate than any of the others she's seen, but the lock is broken, and that makes her curious. When she pushes the door open, the hinges creak, and she sees it's been set up as an improvised bedroom. The fact that it's a bedroom isn't strange. After all, someone lives here. The military cot with the pale blue sheets is made neatly, and the small shelf in the corner has a few books left on it. She recognizes a few childish paperback mystery novels (“Hardy Boys” and “Nancy Drew” and the like), and a small stack of “Gray Ghost” comic books, all dusty and untouched. Everything has been secured tightly to the floor, even the chair by the small desk.

 

She notices tally marks scratched into the concrete wall, maybe with a rock or a bit of metal. There aren't pens or pencils anywhere in the room. There's a window, but it's been covered with a sheet of metal drilled into the wall. The only light source is the fluorescent ceiling panel that fluttered to life when she entered.

 

She realizes, with a slight lurch in her stomach, that the room was designed to keep somebody locked in, and has had anything that could be used as a tool for escape taken away. It's a prison cell.

 

When she leaves, she closes the door behind her carefully. She knows she shouldn't be afraid. It isn't like she's been kidnapped or something. She has free run of the building. The cell seems to be the only room that's been set up so securely. She hasn't heard any sounds of people moving around behind any of the locked doors, and everything is severely practical. She hasn't found any torture chambers or shackles or bloody handprints. And for a prison cell, the prison cell is pretty nice.

 

_Who made all those tally marks?_

 

It doesn't matter. It's the past, and she's safer than she's ever been.

 

The room Slade gives her is one of the offices, and it has a blue cot just like the one in the cell. There's a bookshelf, and a desk, and a fluorescent ceiling panel. There are no tallies on the wall, and the window is uncovered and sunny, with a slightly bleak view of a nearby junkyard. There is no lock on the door. She has permission to use the shower down the hall, and to do whatever she wants in any of the unlocked rooms on both floors. That's a lot of freedom, even though there doesn't seem to be anything interesting lying around to play with.

 

She doesn't ask who used to be in the room with the tally marks.

\---

She wants to become stronger. She knows that it's her only option. Slade won't accept failure: if she screws something up, she doesn't get to quit until she does it right. This applies to everything: if she breaks something, she has to fix it. If she hurts herself training, she has to grit her teeth and deal with it, because stopping in the middle is for weaklings.

 

Tara has “trained” before, but with different goals. Back when she first got her powers, Dr. Jace would have her manipulate different categories of dirt and rock. As it turned out, Tara's powers were most effective on igneous rocks formed above water, and she was better with mixed compositions that with pure minerals. That didn't mean she _couldn't_ move them. She just had to try harder.

 

This is the same as back then. “Can't” is for losers, and Tara is not a loser. She knows that ultimately, she's going to be killing people, and they're going to fight back. If she gives in when she's just practicing, she'll give in in the middle of a fight. She's spent so much time forcing herself to stay alive that it would be stupid (not to mention anticlimactic) to let some nameless target finish her off.

 

Anyway, when she does her best, Slade is really nice to her. As in, nicer than any adult has been to her _ever,_ her mother included. Mama had ups and downs, and during her down periods she could get kind of mean. Slade is consistently neither. The way he treats her is completely dependent on whether or not she's doing a good job. That's reliable, and she likes it. So when she's able to take apart and reassemble a standard rifle and he pats her shoulder and smiles, she feels like the most important person in the world.

\---

Slade leaves a bag of clothes on Tara's bed when she's in the bathroom. They're obviously from the kid's section of some discount store. Tara's not about to complain, because she's been wearing the same shorts for several months, so it really doesn't matter that she doesn't recognize the cartoon characters on the plasticky-smelling t-shirts.

 

Everything fits fine. Tara's had to weigh in a few times since she moved in, so she figures that Slade probably just guessed the sizes based on her height and weight. She wonders if it required a lot of math.

 

She can't figure out what animal the character on the obnoxiously pink hoodie is supposed to be. At first she thinks it has a muzzle like a dog, but its hands look feathery and its feet look rubbery, so she starts to suspect that it actually has some kind of horribly deformed beak. Does Slade think that she's into this? He knows she's not four, right?

 

He's teaching her how to shoot guns and how to get out of headlocks and how to kill people with piano wires. The weird bird-dog-thing on the hoodie is smiling and giving a thumbs-up. Is this a thumbs-up to assassination? Maybe she's thinking too hard about this.

 

The eight-pack of underwear is from the adult's section. Maybe he figured that she was too mature to put Cinderella on her ass, but not mature enough to wear shirts without pictures on them? Did he just not want to be seen lurking around the children's underwear section? He has a strong presence, so he probably scared the employees too much for them to comment. How long did he spend picking this stuff out?

 

She imagines him standing in the checkout line at the store with a shopping cart full of brightly-colored little girl clothes, and she nearly chokes laughing.

\---

_In first grade, some kid named Jeffery got pantsed by the kid who sat next to Tara in class. What she saw looked like a sad mushroom. It was fascinating, so she wanted to talk about it. Her teacher panicked, naturally, and gave her a very long, very fast-paced talk about how boys are different from girls and how she'll understand it when she's older and pulling people's pants down is very unkind and how the bathing suit area is private and if anybody tries to look at it or touch it you should tell an adult. Most of it went over Tara's head. All she caught was “older, unkind, don't.”_

 

_She told Mama about it on the way home, and Mama laughed and told her not to worry. Tara wasn't sure what part she was supposed to not worry about. All she knew was that Jeffery's reaction to his pants suddenly being on the floor was a sort of bemused wonder. One girl had gasped dramatically, another had yelled “WIENER”, and a couple of other kids had laughed, but the world kept turning. The only people who really freaked out were the adults._

 

_A while later, Darla from the apartment next door showed up and asked very shyly if they'd been cooking with a lot of spices, because the strong smells were making her nauseated. Tara shook her head, since she and Mama rarely cooked anything. Over the next few weeks, Darla got really round and bad at bending over. Tara overheard a conversation between the Dudes (they lived on the floor below, and Tara wasn't sure what either of their names were, because “dude” was the only thing they called each other) about how it was probably the grocery store cashier who knocked Darla up. That sounded very unpleasant. Maybe they'd been in some kind of fight._

 

_Tara asked what was going on, and Mama said that Darla had a baby inside of her. Tara, naturally, had no idea how a baby could get in there, so she asked._

 

“ _When a sperm cell meets an egg cell, a baby starts,” was how Mama explained it. That was all. Tara knew a little bit about cells, because her teacher talked about germs and how blood fights germs and shown everybody a cartoon where a blood cell stabbed a bunch of germs with a spear. It was almost twenty minutes long, and Tara had napped through most of it._

 

_Sperm cells and egg cells were probably germs that got inside you if you didn't wash your hands, and that was where babies came from. It made perfect sense. Tara became a lot more hygienic after figuring that out, because she really did not want a baby. Mama kept her busy enough._

 

_Mama hadn't been sleeping for a while, and she'd finally given in and gotten a prescription for sleeping medication from a doctor (who she still spoke quite scornfully about). She wasn't supposed to use it every night, so she didn't. She only used it on nights when she intended to go to sleep._

 

_Tara slept every night, so this worried her. She knew that adults didn't need to sleep as much as kids did, but she'd been under the impression that going for several days without sleeping for more than two hours at a time was unhealthy. When she asked Mama about it, she laughed and said that she had “good stamina,” whatever that meant._

 

_Tara became a bit of a nag. Every other night, if she knew her mother hadn't been sleeping, she would whine and complain until Mama took a sleeping pill (or sometimes two) and passed out on the couch or in her bed or wherever wouldn't put a crick in her neck._

 

_Tara tried to be diligent, but parenting a parent was hard._

_\---_

She likes to watch him scheme. He gave her the key code to his office, in case of some sort of disaster that would call for him to leave it. No disasters have happened so far, but Tara gets bored when there's nothing to do but pace in circles and climb on old pipes. Since he hasn't reprimanded her for it, she's decided that it's fine, so she does it as often as he wants.

 

When he's working on a contract (“contract” is a cute word that means “job that involves shooting somebody dead”) he researches obsessively. Slade makes sure that he knows his target's workplace, schedule, home address, personal friends and family members (and a lot of their information, too), and sometimes even their social security numbers. Tara asks why he spends so much time mapping things out, when he could easily just pull his targets into alleys and dark corners and behind convenience stores and such, slash their throats, and spend the rest of the day watching movies or napping or something.

 

“It's what I'd do,” she says, peering over his shoulder at a spread of photographs and documents.

 

“There's an art to it,” Slade explains. “If I were that casual, I'd just be a hired murderer.”

 

“But in the end, it's the same. They're dead, you've got money, right?” The person in the photos is a middle-aged woman in a dark blue suit, talking to various other suit-wearers and generally looking important.

 

Slade turns his desk chair to face her, and Tara has to take a couple of steps backwards so she doesn't bump into him.

 

“Tell me,” he says. “Who dies in alleys and dark corners and behind convenience stores, and who kills them?”

 

She feels a blush creeping up her neck. She's said something stupid, definitely. “People-- people who spend a lot of time in those places, I guess? For both.”

 

“More specific. You know the answer.”

 

Tara thinks back. She's spent a significant amount of time worrying about dying, mostly in alleys, dark corners, and behind convenience stores, because those are all good places to lurk when you eat garbage like a rat. She knows who hangs around those places.

 

“Bums,” she says. “Um, kids who steal food, and hookers.”

 

“Exactly. Now, who cares enough to hire somebody to kill them?”

 

Tara fidgets. She feels like a complete idiot, so she decides to risk saying something that might be idiotic: “I think this guy I met a few months ago wanted to kill me, so him, I guess.”

 

Slade sighs, and rubs his temples. So, definitely idiotic, then. “My clients are wealthy and influential people. So are my targets. If anyone makes the connection between them, then I'm done for as an assassin. Lazy killing is easy to investigate, so I avoid making messes.”

 

“Oh...” That makes sense. Slade isn't just a run-of-the-mill killer. He's a professional. _She's_ a professional. “Has anybody ever figured you out?”  
  


“People have figured me out before,” he says, and he smiles, which makes her feel a little proud. “I've even been caught. But no one has ever managed to actually stop me for good.”

\---

Slade gives her a day off to wander around town. Now that she's not mostly-dead anymore, the city seems a lot less intimidating. Tara doesn't have any money, but she does have weather-appropriate clothing and isn't covered in grime, so that puts her at least two levels above what she was before.

 

She's able to walk down the actual sidewalks, instead of just skulking around behind buildings and shoving bread under her shirt. Nobody side-eyes her when she passes by them, even this one fancy-ass lady who's walking hand-in-hand with a fancy-ass dude. They both smell like laundry and hairspray, and have very pink skin. Tara is pretty certain that a couple of months ago, they would have taken a detour to avoid walking by her. She suppresses the urge to grab the lady's purse and run just for shits and giggles. Tara was never a purse-snatching type, but honestly, some purses just look like they'd be really fun to steal.

 

She goes into a grocery store and gets a free sample of some kind of goat-cheese-lettuce roll, and nobody shoos her away because now she looks not-homeless, which is pretty awesome. She lurks around a pharmacy and handles all the cold medicine, and nobody tries to make sure she's not stealing it (it's not like she wanted it anyway). Tara spends a full ten minutes loitering outside a restaurant, and nobody even blinks. Basically, it turns out that showers and clothes without holes in them are pretty much magic. She's got it made.

 

She finds a copy of some teen magazine lying in the road, and since it's unclaimed, she takes it. From the cover, she discerns that it's about some pretty boy who apparently is dating a famous girl, and also how to do french braids, and how to attract a pretty boy of your own. It looks pretty stupid, but she doesn't have any books on the shelf in her room, and she's bored when there's no training to do. She does tuck it under her shirt bread-style, but that's just because she doesn't have a bag to put it in.

 

It's getting dark. Everything is tinted yellow-pink and the respectable people are returning to their dens. She knows that Slade's going to expect to see her on the outskirts of town soon. She tucks her hands into her pockets and starts trekking. Maybe she shouldn't have taken the magazine off the street. No, it's too dumb to matter.

 

As the streets darken, they become more familiar. They leave a gross feeling in her stomach, like sour milk. Maybe if the memories she associated with them were less recent, she'd feel better. She spots someone moving on the edges of her vision. She keeps looking ahead, because it's usually a bad idea to look at strangers when it's dark.

 

“It's you, isn't it?” someone says. She stops in her tracks and turns slowly to meet their eye.

 

“Sandwich Boy,” she says stupidly. He's standing at the edge of his territory, old bruises fading and new bruises blooming.

 

“The hell happened?” he asks. There's a slight lisp to his voice. Tara sees that a couple of his front teeth are broken. “Did you get a sugar daddy or something?”

 

Tara's face burns. “I got tougher,” she says. “I could kick your ass now.”

 

Sandwich Boy laughs, but there's a bitter note behind it. “Maybe,” he says. “Wanna try me?”

 

She shakes her head. “I don't fight street rats in alleys anymore,” she says. “I outgrew that.”

 

His eyebrows lower. “If you keep up that bitchy attitude, Daddy's not gonna want you anymore. You'll be back to begging me for leftovers.”

 

She feels her temper flare up, and she can't stop her lip from curling into a snarl. “You're real confident for someone with so many broken teeth,” she says. “I'm guessing the other guy looks worse?”

 

He stiffens, then takes a step forward. His jaw is clenched, and his fists are trembling. “How about you say that again?” he asks. “You talk pretty big, but I remember someone curling up on the ground and hugging a pack of bread like a teddy bear. Want a rematch?”

 

She's about to open her mouth to say something caustic, or maybe she's about to tear up the sidewalk and pin him to the ground, but a nondescript car parks at the end of the block. She recognizes it, and it only takes her a second to make her decision.

 

“I've gotta go,” she says, and turns around.

 

“I mean, I guess it makes sense _you'd_ rather suck Daddy's cock than actually fight fair,” he says, shrugging. She starts walking a little faster, because even though what he's saying has no basis in reality, it stings. “Also, get a bra,” the boy calls just before she opens the passenger door. “I can see, like, everything.”

 

Slade starts driving. “Who was that?” he asks.

 

“Shitbag I used to know,” Tara says, although she feels a bit shaky.

 

“What were you talking about?”

 

“Old fights. Doesn't matter now,” she says, and grins. She's always been a good liar. “There was a misunderstanding.”

 

“Is it over?” Slade asks. He doesn't look at her, but for some reason she feels as though she's being stared at.

 

“It's over,” Tara says confidently. “I showed him who was boss.”

 

“That's good,” Slade says. “It's important not to have any unfinished business.”

 

“Yeah,” she says.

 

Her business doesn't feel finished. She supposes there was no way she could have won, unless things had actually come to blows and she'd obliterated Sandwich Boy. Even then, he always seemed to have the upper hand. She _isn't_ some kind of staggeringly incompetent super-slut, so why does she always feel like one after talking to this guy?

 

Maybe she should get a bra.

\---

_Bill, the kid who'd pantsed Jeffery, threw up on Tara's math worksheet. Tara was secretly relieved, because she'd been missing school a lot (Mama had been too fuzzy-headed to drive her). She had no clue what the little “_ x _” in the middle of the problems meant, so she'd just decided that it was a misshapen plus sign and was answering accordingly._

 

_Bill was rushed to the nurse's office, and everybody was herded away from the vomit, because of germs. The janitor showed up heroically, with a mop and a bucket of sawdust._

 

“ _People throw up when they're nauseated, right?” Tara asked her teacher. Her teacher seemed relieved that the question was so ordinary, and said that they did. Tara stowed this knowledge away for later use._

 

“ _Bill's got a baby in him,” Tara told her mother on the drive home._

 

_Mama looked over her shoulder at Tara with a quizzical expression. “Does he?” she asked._

 

“ _I think so,” Tara said. “He threw up on my math.”_

 

“ _That doesn't mean he's pregnant, Baby.” Mama was fighting down the urge to laugh. Tara could hear it, and it was kind of offending her._

 

“ _No, I think it does. I think a sperm and an egg got inside him, and it makes sense, because I don't think he ever washes his hands.”_

 

_Mama pulled into the parking lot. She always parked on the very edge, where there were no other cars. Tara liked that, because the far parking spots were closer to the bushes, and sometimes the bushes had flowers or bugs on them._

 

“ _That's not how it works, Tara. If it worked that way, everybody would be having babies all the time, and nobody would get anything done.”_

 

“ _Darla gets things done. I saw her buying canned potatoes at the store when we went yesterday.”_

 

“ _She wasn't there for potatoes. Anyway, babies aren't like colds. You don't get them by not washing your hands.”_

 

“ _How, then?” Tara asked as they climbed the stairs._

 

_Mama made a face, and Tara gave up for the moment._

 

_Later on, she found a book about ghost moths in the public library. At twilight, the silvery males would hover and dance for the soft gold-brown females, who called to them with hypnotic smells. The princesses would pick their princes from the crowd, like in a fairy tale. Then, like in a fairy tale, the princes' aedeagi would connect to the princesses' corpus bursaes and fill them up with a lot of spermatophores, and that would make a whole bunch of moth babies to pop out of the ovipores later, apparently._

 

_Tara figured that the same principle probably applied to people._

 

_When she told Jeffery about it on the playground, he said that she was lying, so she pulled his hair, and he started crying, and the teacher called Mama._

 

“ _That woman is crazy,” said one of the other teachers. “You know you won't get through to her.”_

 

“ _I have to at least call her. It's school policy.”_

 

_Tara wanted to scream, but she didn't. That would just make everybody bother her mother more, and that would be just terrible._

 

_Anyway, Mama gave Tara a talk when she picked her up. Similar connections, similar structures. The same principle did basically apply to people. Later on, the teacher announced to the whole class that the words “aedeagus” and “ovipore” were forbidden at school. Tara resented Jeffery for that._

\---

She can't stop thinking about it, and it's driving her crazy. Tara hadn't even thought about it until somebody else brought it up, but now she _notices_ , and that's embarrassing, because if she notices, then everybody else must. Since her funds and spare time are limited, she has to ask Slade about it. She wishes that there were another way, but she's a pragmatist. Tara does what's necessary.

 

It takes several minutes of ruminating for her to build up the courage to knock on his door. When he opens it, he looks exhausted and disheveled. Tara figures that he's been in fever-mode. She knows that Slade's current project is a well-known lawyer who's rarely alone, so he's probably been trying to figure out a way to corner him. Slade probably hasn't slept in a long time (but Tara's never seen him sleep ever, so he might actually be a vampire) He looks down at her, and she can't tell whether or not her presence is irritating him, but she's already got herself fired up, so she stares at her feet and says it.

 

“Ineedabra,” she says in one breath, and she looks hopefully up at him for two seconds before becoming embarrassed going back to looking at the floor.

 

“Speak more clearly,” he says, but his voice is kind of rough from disuse. She knows that she can't exactly scold him for that, though.

 

“I think I need a bra,” she repeats. Her ears are burning.

 

He looks her up and down, completely expressionless. “You don't,” he says, and closes the door.

 

Tara starts doubling up her shirts on cold days, and that works pretty well. She can't help being a little disappointed that there wasn't even a debate.

\---

One day, Slade walks into her room and gives her a cupcake for no reason.

 

“What the hell?” she asks, because that's the first thing that comes to mind.

 

“Happy birthday,” he says, and leaves the room.

 

She shrugs and goes on with her business, which is reading a paperback adventure novel she found in the garbage can behind the 5-below. Some habits are hard to break.

 

It turns out that she's fourteen. She's made it another year. She wonders if she should feel happier about it. When she thinks about it, she just gets a flat feeling: not happy, not sad.

 

Either way, it's a free cupcake, and that's good.

 

\---

_Tara did her best. She really, really did her best. When Mama couldn't sleep, Tara sang to her. When Mama couldn't eat, Tara would hopelessly nag her with bowls of dry cereal and plastic cups of yogurt. The bad days were getting more frequent, and Tara was missing more school. She was seven, and teachers expected her to at least be able to understand fractions and multiplication, but she was falling behind._

 

_It didn't matter, because Tara was the only person who could take care of Mama, and she was failing._

 

“ _I'll be fine,” Mama said. “I'm just tired.”_

 

“ _Sleep, then.”_

 

“ _Sweetie, you don't have to worry about me,” Mama said, and she smiled and there were hollows under her eyes and that couldn't be normal, could it? “Go play with your friends.”_

 

“ _Everybody's got the flu,” Tara lied. She was always good at that. “I don't wanna catch it.”_

 

“ _So diligent,” Mama said, and Tara wasn't sure what that word meant but she liked the sound of it. “Go be a kid, okay? Don't waste your time on me.”_

 

“ _Are you crazy?” Tara asked._

 

_Her mother's face went blank. “What?”_

 

“ _I heard... I heard someone say you were crazy. Like on TV.”_

 

_Mama laughed bitterly. “I'm crazy,” she said. “My brain's all scrambled up like an egg.”_

 

“ _But why?”_

 

“ _We're both probably crazy, Baby. My mama was crazy, and my daddy was too. It's my inheritance.”_

 

“ _If I'm crazy too, then...” Somehow, it made perfect sense. No wonder Mama was always worried. Nobody liked crazies. If they were crazy, that was probably why they were scared and broke and messy all the time. “I'm crazy,” Tara said proudly._

 

_Tara spent a half-hour or so drawing with crayon on a bank notice. The letters at the top were big enough for her to fill in the holes in them, but she went outside the lines by mistake. As soon as that happened, she became so frustrated that she tore the of paper in half._

 

_The milk in the fridge was bad, so she put the whole bottle in the garbage and dragged the bag out to the first-floor dumpster. Darla was there, round and flustered, talking to someone (he worked at the store, but he wasn't wearing his apron, so he looked strange) about some issue or another. When she saw Tara, she smiled and asked how her day was going._

 

“ _It's terrible,” Tara said. “I'm crazy.” Darla's smile wavered for a second, but it returned bravely._

 

“ _I hope your day gets better soon,” Darla said. “Has anything good happened, at least?”_

 

_Tara thought for a second. “One good thing. You look like a balloon, and it's cool.”_

 

_For some reason, the adults laughed at that. Tara wasn't able to get the garbage bag all the way into the dumpster, so she just left it hanging there._

 

_When she got back to the apartment, Mama was eating the cereal Tara had brought her._

 

_Two good things, then._

_\---_

“Guns work better,” Tara says over breakfast one morning (a glass of water, two hard-boiled eggs, and a piece of rye bread). “So why do you even keep all those swords and knives?”

 

“Why do you think I keep them?” Slade answers. She really wishes he'd quit answering her questions with more questions. She's not allowed to have caffeine, and she's not good at thinking this early in the morning.

 

“They look cool,” she answers.

 

“Try again.”

 

“Quieter.”

 

“That could work, but there are other reasons, too.”

 

“Guns don't work all the time.”

 

“Explain.”

 

“Uh...” Tara glares at her uneaten bread. She hates rye. She really shouldn't have asked such a dumb question. “If you're fighting something really big, like a grizzly bear, it'll get you before the bullet kills it.”

 

Slade becomes quiet for a second. Then, he shakes his head. “Some clients have very specific requests.”

 

“Why? If you want someone dead, you just want 'em dead, right?” Tara asks. This is an egging question. She knows that the answer is “no” but now she's curious.

 

“You'd be surprised how many people have hired me to take revenge for them,” Slade says. “If they want to get back at someone for betraying them, they'll want that person stabbed in the back. If someone caused them to lose a hand, they'll want me to cut off the target's hand before I kill them. It's about poetic justice.”

 

Tara thinks about this for a second. Plenty of people have screwed her over, but she hasn't really gotten creative in terms of revenge-fantasizing. Sure, she's imagined lobbing rocks at her father's stupid mother-ditching, bounty hunter-paying face, but she hasn't really thought of it as poetic. Slade is looking at her intently, she realizes.

 

“What did you do?” she asks. She points at her eye, then at his eyepatch. “For _that_ , I mean. Was it an 'eye for an eye' scenario or something?”

 

“Finish your food,” he says. That's the end of it.

 

Tara really hates rye bread.

\---

“We're leaving tomorrow.” Slade enters her room almost silently, but Tara's gotten good enough at listening not to be startled.

 

“Huh?” Tara looks up from the pistol she'd been taking apart. It's such a little thing, compared to the others in the armory. She knows it's deadly, but it's almost cute. “Why?”

 

“You're going to accompany me on a business trip.”

 

“Like, a project?” she asks, trying not to look too excited. “Are we handling a contract together?” Up until this moment, every time Slade's gotten a mysterious phone call or a stranger showing up at the door, Tara's been shooed away to her room and left behind to mind herself while Slade does the interesting things.

 

Slade shakes his head, obviously annoyed. “You're going to accompany me. I'll do the talking, the driving, and the shooting. You'll watch.”

 

“Oh,” Tara says. Secretly, she's a little relieved. She's never done one of these before. This way, she won't have any unexpected responsibilities. “Who's the target?”

 

Slade hands her a fat manila folder and turns to leave. “Go through this tonight. It should have everything you need, so don't ask any questions.”

 

Tara nods vigorously as he shuts the door, and eagerly digs in to the folder.

 

The next day, Tara watches quietly as Slade snipes Doreen Cooper, the owner of three TV stations, through the open window of her Chevy. It's much quicker and easier than Tara thought it would be. Slade says later that this was a small job, and that most of his projects are more complicated.

 

Tara wants to know who wanted Cooper dead in the first place, but Slade says that it's confidential. He's met the client and determined that they were worthwhile, so Tara should trust his judgement. Tara is irritated, because it's not like she has anybody to snitch to in the first place. Tara asks why Slade took the job in the first place. Slade says that Cooper was kind of a shithead anyway, so he was fine with offing her even without much information. In the end, it was mostly about money.

\---

Tara's able to murder the hell out of the training dummy. She's been working on making her rock-work more focused, so that it's less about brute force and more about precision. The smaller the rock she's manipulating, the less energy she expends, and she can use that saved energy to avoid getting stabbed and punched and impaled and stuff.

 

Slade pats her head and tells her she's doing a good job when he sees the amount of pebbles embedded in the mannequin's face. He tells her she should try to shoot them a little harder so that they go all the way through, and that he'll get her something more like skin and bone to practice on. She feels like she's walking on air.

 

She spends the rest of the day playing with the various things she's allowed to play with. She reads her magazine (fashionable girls wear legwarmers and exercise to music, but Tara thinks that it's better to train where it's quiet), pretends that she's juggling rocks (she's really just making them float in a circle, which is cheating), and throws some knives at the person-shaped paper target. Slade let her draw a clown face and a cartoon penis on it, which was and still is hilarious. She's still not that great an aim with knives, so instead of properly murdering it, she murders the foam base and its left knee.

 

She gets bored and decides to vandalize her penis-clown-target some more when she realizes that something is weird. She's mostly just shocked, because she hasn't had this problem since she was a toddler.

 

It seems that she has pissed her pants.

 

She runs as fast as she can up the loud, incriminating metal stairs, and into the bathroom she's allowed to use. She takes a second to catch her breath, and devises a battle plan. She's just going to do a whole load of laundry. There's a crummy laundromat by the road, just outside of town that they use. It costs a quarter. She'll just change, pretend that she's almost out of clothes, and spend a quarter. She has like nine of them. Everything's fine.

 

It turns out that the problem is more complicated than she'd thought. It seems that she is not only pissing her pants, but she is also pissing blood. She has not heard of this condition before, but she assumes that it can't be good.

 

She sits down on the toilet and broods for a while. Where's the blood coming from? Is it her bladder? Is there a big cut somewhere in there? She hasn't felt anything. Wait-- yesterday she had a stomachache. That was the cut. That was the bladder cut.

 

What do you do about internal injuries? She knows how to bind a wound properly. She knows how to cut away necrotic flesh. Hell, she knows how to tie a tourniquet (that is, she could tie a tourniquet if she were willing to cut off her fucking arm, which she isn't). Is this going to require surgery? How's she going to explain it? Are there black-market mercenary doctors, or is she going to have to go to a hospital? She hates hospitals.

 

She's going to have to ask Slade about this. What if she's dying? Should she write a will? She doesn't know how to write a will. What would she even put on it? How should she approach him? “Hey, I'm peeing blood and dying” is a bad conversation starter. Of course, it's better to be blunt about this kind of thing, so maybe it's actually a good conversation starter. She knows that Slade is in the armory cleaning his automatics. She hopes that the news isn't too shocking. Bad things happen when people are startled while handling guns (Slade gave her a whole stack of photos).

 

She takes a deep breath and holds it for several seconds. She's going to go tell him, and whatever happens will happen. That's zen. Her magazine has a little section about it-- zen is when you're really calm and like spotted carps and little trees and maybe when you're Buddhist. She's not really sure. This is terrifying. She does her best to clean up the blood (her pants look like somebody got startled when they were handling a gun). Her nose is running, but that isn't a priority at the moment.

 

She manages to catch Slade just as he's leaving the armory, so he doesn't have any guns to accidentally die with. She knows she looks frantic, but she doesn't care. He starts to ask what she's doing, but she interrupts him.

 

“I'm peeing blood and dying,” she announces. “Please don't fire me,” she adds.

 

The conversation that results from this is deeply unpleasant for both of them. Tara resists the urge to ask about ovipores and corpus bursaes, because she has a suspicion that it will just make things worse.

 

Anyway, she has neither pissed her pants nor died, so that means that her day has basically gone well.

\---

Tara gets to tag along on a few more business trips: two assassinations and a minor heist. Each time, Slade meets the client in person beforehand, but Tara doesn't get to go to the meetings. During the actual jobs, Tara follows instructions and remains quiet, but observes carefully. She gets to meet Slade's weapon supplier, who's a lot more stutter-y and awkward than she'd expected from someone with that kind of job _(“Are- are you s-sure that it's ok-ay to bring the k-kid along, Mr. Wilson?”)_ and gets really good at listening in to conversations she shouldn't listen in to. This does not get her in trouble, even though she's fairly certain that Slade knows about it. She thinks he might actually approve of it.

 

One particularly interesting adventure is a week-long bodyguard gig. Slade tails a political talk radio host who has apparently pissed off somebody with a lot of big guns. Radio Guy's name is something obviously fake, like Pteranodon Schwartz, or something like that, and he has a reputation for being very angry all the time at people who disagree with him. Pteranodon (fuck it, Tara's just going to call him Donnie) is a portly man with a red face and a hoarse voice, who thanks Slade profusely and then stares at her for a long time.

 

“Is that your daughter?” Donnie asks. “Or did she just, uh, get in here somehow?” He gestures at the locked door.

 

“She's my associate,” Slade says, and Tara practically glows with pride. Not “student,” or “kid,” or even “sidekick.” Tara's an associate. She's got connections.

 

“Is she gonna be here the whole time?” Donnie asks, squinting slightly. “Because I said I wanted you on me like glue, and if that means I've also gotta childproof the recording studio...”

 

“She's highly trained. Consider her presence a bonus,” Slade says. He looks irritated, even though he's wearing his mask. Tara's gotten good at body language. She's highly trained, after all.

 

“Sure,” Donnie says, even though he doesn't seem convinced. “What's your name, kid?”

 

“Terra,” Slade says before Tara can say anything. She crosses her arms and huffs. “Terra” was the code-name Dr. Jace had used during the experiments. She'd rather pick her own, but if that's how it's gonna go, so be it.

 

“What grade are you in?” Donnie asks in that awkward condescending voice that adults always use when they speak to children (except Slade. Slade treats her like an adult, and that's the best). “Fifth or sixth, I'm guessing?”

 

“Don't bother her,” Slade says. His irritation levels are rising. “She's not here to talk, she's here to work.” Tara nods for emphasis, and gives Donnie her best merc glare.

 

They really do stick to Donnie like glue. Slade puts on a fake eye and a nice blazer, and tells everyone that he's stepping in for the station owner while he's on vacation (the station owner is tied up and blindfolded in an Applebee's storage room. Someone will find him, probably). Tara says that she's his daughter, and it's take your daughter to work day, and where are their daughters? Don't they care about their daughters?

 

Slade even follows Donnie into the bathroom, which seems to upset him, but he did hire them, and they're thorough, so what did he expect? Did he expect his bodyguard to _not_ follow him into the bathroom? Tara has to stand outside by the drinking fountains, but if she puts her thumb over the faucet, she can squirt passers-by, so she's able to keep herself entertained.

 

They sit in the studio while he records-- more accurately, Tara sits on the floor, and Slade hovers over Donnie like a subtly-armed vulture. It's pretty educational. Tara's never been into politics, but, as it turns out, everybody is stealing everybody else's jobs, all the politicians are owned by the media, if you don't speak English you should get out, and Donnie is very red and looks like he might hurt himself when he talks about certain subjects.

 

“Just wanna say you're doin' a great job,” says a caller through the staticky speaker. “Just wanna say, Pter, you're a real American, you know that? Wanna say you're doin' us good. Keep up the great work.”

 

Slade looks at the clock. He's obviously bored. Tara isn't sure he can stay still for too long if he's not waiting for anything in particular.

 

“I think we should be more vigilant in general,” says another caller. “We can't just assume that people have our best interests at heart.”

 

Tara nods. That's just common sense.

 

“Political correctness has gone crazy these days,” says yet another caller. “If we see a problem, aren't we allowed to point it out? It's because the Jews are always--”

 

Donnie's producer, Elise, quickly switches to a commercial break.

 

The next day is Donnie's day off, so he spends most of his time at home. Slade and Tara still follow him everywhere. Slade checks all the windows, and then he makes sure that no traps have been set up in the house. He watches Donnie sleep. Tara has to appreciate how thorough he is. In the meantime, she reads Donnie's collection of _Peanuts_ comics and steals a pack of cigarettes from his desk drawer, just for the hell of it. He's got like eight of them in there. He won't notice.

 

Of course, that night, three armed assassins sneak in through the tiny window in Donnie's bathroom and try to stab him in the shower. Luckily, Slade was hiding next to the window, being very quiet and making Donnie very uncomforable. Tara hears the scuffle, and Donnie saying “holy crap” and somebody saying “we can take 'em, boys” and somebody else saying, “fuck, it's the Terminator” and Slade saying, “take that, you stupid bastard!”

 

She doesn't actually see anything, but good radio doesn't need visuals to be interesting.

 

She does help clean up the assassin blood after Donnie's gotten dressed. It takes a lot of bleach, but she and Slade have a spirited conversation about those bendy people who can sneak in through tiny windows, and how they tend not to have much actual muscle mass, and therefore are easy to overcome in close quarters.

 

Nobody else comes to murder Donnie, but Tara does learn a little more about the inner workings of a radio station, and they do get a shitload of money, so in the end, it's a fun job. By the end of the week, Elise seems pretty suspicious, so Tara's glad they're getting out of there. In the newspaper, she reads about how the manager of the local radio station was found very disheveled and upset in an Applebee's. He had been surviving on shelf-stable cheese and margarita mix. Tara's happy that things turned out alright for him. He hadn't done anything wrong, he'd just been in the way.

\---

Brion is in America. Tara saw it on the news. He's wearing a uniform like the one she got from Dr. Jace (like the one Dr. Jace made for both of them, so they would match), and he's apparently meeting with those Titan kids who Slade complains about every now and then. He looks good. Tara liked him better than the rest of her father's family. He was the only one who made an effort to talk to her, even though she was an embarrassment.

 

She wonders if he'll be staying long. He's got friends here, it looks like. A bunch of awfully cute idealists, the superhero types with the bright colors and the sweet earnest smiles. Brion would fit in with them. He was always so polite and nice and honest. His mother never slept all day and cried all night, and he never got beat up by any giggling child gangs. It makes sense that he's friends with sweet innocent people, because he's sweet and innocent.

 

It makes her want to gag.

\---

A few weeks later, they take on a big job, one that requires them to leave town. As usual, Tara is pumped, especially because Slade says that she's allowed to meet the client this time.

 

The target is the CEO of a plastics company, and Tara's not exactly sure who it is that wants him dead. Slade met the client in person, as usual, at a small diner near the library. Apparently, its plainness makes it the ideal place to meet when you want to make shady deals, since nobody suspects dark things to happen in light places.

 

The client is a younger man, with a round face, round shoulders, and very round eyes. He's frightened and clammy, but Slade is perfectly calm. Tara sits on Slade's side of the booth, since it would be weird to sit next to a stranger, and drinks a cup of watery hot chocolate while carefully observing the conversation.

 

“Is it okay to have the kid here?” the client asks, sweatily. Everything he does is sweaty. Tara wonders if he's okay.

 

“Yes,” Slade answers.

 

“Is she... uh. Is she yours?” The client looks from side to side. Sweatily. Sweaty man. Tara doesn't like him.

 

“Yes. When do you want it done?”

 

“Before the thirtieth. That's when the merger's happening, so, uh...”

 

“Any specifications?”

 

“Just make sure he's dead,” the client says, tugging at his tie. “Soon.”

 

“Understood. Should I contact you when it's done?”

 

“No. I'll. Ha.” The client smiles nervously. “I'll pay now, and I'll hear about it from someone else. I don't want to know.”

 

Slade nods, as though what he's just heard isn't blatant cowardice. Tara squeezes her cup a little harder. If you want someone killed, then you have to be honest with yourself about where the guilt lies. Or credit, she guesses. Tara doesn't know what kind of person the target is.

 

The client pays in cash, with some bills that Tara's never even seen before. Slade accepts gracefully, shakes the man's sweaty hand, and lets him leave first. They wait a few minutes before leaving. Tara notes that Slade leaves a generous tip for the waitress, who had been courteously not-present.

 

“He was really scared of you,” Tara comments once they're outside. “Did you do something earlier?”

 

“He was the one who contacted me, but he didn't want to meet in person.” Slade unlocks the car, and Tara sits in the passenger seat. It's becoming a very familiar place, and she likes it. “I make it a policy to know who I'm working with.”

 

“Kind of a creep, though,” Tara says. “Like a big sweating baby. I mean, I guess I can see why he wouldn't be able to kill a guy himself. Absolutely zero spine.”

 

“If everyone were a killer, there would be no need for mercenaries,” Slade says. “People like him are the reason people like us get jobs, so you should be grateful.”

 

“But we don't take a job from just _anyone,_ right?” Tara asks. “I mean, I can understand working for someone you don't like, but...”

 

“Of course not.” Slade isn't even looking at her, which is annoying (Tara hates feeling ignored), but she guesses he should probably keep his eyes on the road. “If somebody asks me to do something deplorable, I won't take their offer. Hell, I've killed them for coming back after I've turned them down.”

 

“What defines deplorable?”

 

“We define it,” he says, and he smiles at her. “Personally, I won't do anything that endangers the United States, and I won't harm children. I think those are good rules to follow, but ultimately, it's your decision.”

 

She smiles back, and wonders what her own definition will be.

\---

_Mama never was good at falling asleep._

 

_They'd had a good day. A papa-check had come in and they'd gone to the zoo. Tara spent most of her time in the indoor exhibits, because they were air conditioned and the summer was overwhelming._

 

“ _Alligator snapping turtles are special,” Tara said. “They're a two-for-one deal.”_

 

“ _Be careful next time you play in the pool,” Mama said, but she was smiling and Tara knew she wasn't serious. Alligator snapping turtles don't live in the pool._

 

_The bug house was also pretty neat. Tara was disappointed that she couldn't find any ghost moths, but there was a tarantula that apparently ate birds, which was a horrifying image. Invertebrates shouldn't get to catch and eat vertebrates. Maybe it was an unfair way of thinking, but Tara felt that there was a natural order to things. A bird eats a bug, a bird hits a window and dies, and now that the bird is dead, the bug are allowed to have it (flies, worms, little red ants). If the bugs strike first, then the order is thrown off._

 

_Tara wasn't sure if she was a bug or a bird, but either way the story ended with her being eaten._

 

_That night, Mama was up late, pacing nervously. Tara wasn't sure what the reason was, but there were a few very likely ones. Perhaps she was worried that she would misspend the money. She might have thought that a cut had become infected, or maybe that child services would show up like they did on TV and see the messy house and the crazy mother and the to-be-crazy daughter, and take Tara away to live in a group home. These were all fears that Mama had voiced before, but maybe it was something new this time. Tara usually tried to keep an eye on her when she was in a worry-spiral, but her legs were sore from walking all day._

 

“ _It's no use, it's no use,” Mama said._

 

“ _It's a use,” Tara said, yawning._

 

“ _Baby, just go to sleep,” Mama said, and she was soft but there was a quaver, and a quaver was never good._

 

“ _Only if you do,” Tara said, crossing her arms. “I'll only sleep if you do. Take your medicine.”_

 

_Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, bad--_

 

_Tara went to bed without checking on Mama first. In the morning, the pill bottle was empty and Mama wasn't breathing._

_  
Tara called 911, as all the books and after-school specials had taught her, and the doctors came and the doctors said the time and the doctors got a big bag and called Child Services._

 

_The story of the universe was rewritten._

\---

The target is a couple cities over. He's going to be at a big conference with other manufacturing magnates, and the client wants him dead before he can make any stupid decisions. The drive is long and boring, but Tara is just excited that she gets to come along. She's been left alone on the compound before, and she always gets lonely. She's sunk low enough to make small talk with the penis clown, and that's pretty low.

 

Slade doesn't want to listen to the radio, and he doesn't want to make stops. He has a little bottle of caffeine tablets in case he gets tired, but she doesn't get anything. Tara should have brought her magazine. She's read it a few times now, but it's so familiar that it's comforting. The pretty boy and his girlfriend have become characters in her head, and she likes to make up conversations between them (“David, not again! You're getting footprints all over my dress!” and “Damn it, Katrina, if you don't want me standing on them you shouldn't wear such long skirts everywhere!”). The hairspray advertisement and the leotard girls also cameo sometimes. Tara needs to be entertained.

 

Due to the lack of entertainment, at some point, she falls asleep in the car. When she wakes up, her neck is sore and it's nighttime. The car isn't moving anymore. She looks around, and her stomach turns, because she's alone. If this was all part of an elaborate plan to ditch her, she'll be so pissed. She's either going to die or kill somebody. Slade ditched her. He was willing to ditch a whole damn car to get away from her. She'll fucking kill him. If she's able to find him (he's really good at hiding). Or, no, she'll make him find _her_ for whatever reason, and then she'll kill him. Yeah. Except what if--

 

The door unlocks on her side, and Slade is standing there. It looks like she doesn't have to plan his murder after all. That's good, because she hasn't actually successfully killed anyone yet.

 

“Get out,” he says. “We have to work early tomorrow.”

 

It turns out they're in the parking lot of a run-down motel. Apparently, Slade can rough it to a certain extent, but he won't sleep in the car. What a pussy. Tara suppresses a snort. She just called Slade a pussy. He doesn't know that, so it's fine. It's her secret insult. He gives her a look, so she immediately straightens her face and tries to look like she hasn't been acting like a bitch in her head.

 

The room is on the first floor, and it's right in front of the car. Tara wonders if it's a security thing, or just a coincidence. The door clicks shut when they enter, and she can't help but be a little excited. There are stains on the walls, and a ceiling fan with a light attached to it, which seems to be the only lighting the room has. There's a TV and running water, so by her standards, it's not half-bad. She's looking at the bed and wondering how many parasites live in it when the problem registers with her.

 

There's a bed. As in, singular bed. She tugs Slade's sleeve, and he looks down at her.

 

“Um.” She points at the bed. “There's only one of those. I'm here too..?”

 

“A double room would be a waste of money,” Slade says. Tara crosses her arms and thinks about the huge wad of cash the sweaty man had paid with. Two beds shouldn't even register on the money-scale. “The bed is made to hold two people anyway, but you can sleep on the chair if you want.”

 

“Chair it is, then,” she says, trying to make her annoyance clear. Slade doesn't seem to care. He's checking the shades on the windows for gaps.

 

As it turns out, it's harder to sleep in the chair than she thought it would be. There are no extra blankets in the open closet, and the upholstery smells weird. Slade seems to have somehow fallen asleep, with his eyepatch on the nightstand. This disproves Tara's vampire theory, but she doesn't really care. She's mostly just tired and sore and cold. The digital clock says it's two in the morning, and they're supposed to be out before five.

 

He's asleep. She can probably sneak in, wake up before he does, and then get back into the chair and he'll never know that she buckled. She stands up stiffly, and creeps into the bed beside him. The springs creak, but they don't seem to wake him.

 

Having another person next to her is... warm. It might just be the blankets, but the bed is definitely preferable to the chair. She makes an effort to stay as close to the edge as she can without falling off. She knows she tends to roll around in her sleep, and she'd rather fall out of bed than let Slade know that she slept next to him. She falls asleep pretty quickly, and has bland, unmemorable dreams.

 

When she wakes up, his body is pressed against her back and his arm is wrapped around her waist. His breathing seems even. She isn't sure if he's awake. She prays that he isn't. Even if he is, how's she going to get out of this? The heat that had been comforting before has become oppressive. The grip tightens, and she's pulled closer. She can feel his chest moving and her neck tickling as he breathes, and he's breathing just a little harder. Something presses against the small of her back.

 

Oh no.

 

The aedeagus is no longer retracted. Repeat: the aedeagus has escaped its sheath and is flush against her back, and there is nothing she can do about it.

 

Tara's only option is to go limp, like a slug. She thinks about slugs. Slugs have it worse. They just stab each other until they're both slug-pregnant. Why does she know so much about bug sex? Her mother should have paid closer attention to her reading material. This is terrible. This is as bad as it gets, excluding how slugs reproduce, which is only slightly worse. She has somehow caused Slade to become sexually aroused, and, much like a slug, she really wants to be stabbed right now. Somebody should just burst in and put her out of her misery.

 

She stays perfectly still for about seven minutes, and then the alarm goes off and startles her into full lucidity. It's four-thirty, and she's gotten about two hours of sleep. She was too proud to just lie down in the bed in the first place, and maybe if she'd just behaved instead of being petty, she wouldn't be in this situation.

 

“The chair wasn't good enough, then,” Slade says. Her whole body tenses in dread. What's he going to think of her, now that she's gone and done this? She's a sleep molester. In her sleep, she molested his crotch with her back.

 

“Sorry,” she says, very quietly. “For all that.”

 

Slade doesn't say anything. Instead, he rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom.

 

She hears the shower running. She sits on the edge of the bed and wonders what happens next. She has just been in a sexual situation with her mentor-guardian-boss. This could get her fired. If she gets fired, she'll have to find some other job, probably. Slade's shown her how to get fake ID's for disguise purposes, so she can probably trick someone into thinking she's at least sixteen, and get a job as a waitress or something. The world's not as scary as it was when she was dying.

 

But what if her family comes after her again? Brion's okay, but Gregor is so damn condescending. Her father's a dick, and his wife is a rotten old hag. What if they make her go back to Markovia, and she has to do more tests, and Brion keeps on being so clean and disgustingly friendly, and Gregor keeps saying, “you were a mistake anyway” and--

 

She's tough. Slade's shown her how to fight, even if she still can't win against him. Maybe she can't fight off somebody inhumanly strong and twice her size, but other people won't know how strong she is until it's too late. They'll have to respect her. Nobody can know about this incident, of course. This is a big deal. She's just compromised a powerful assassin's dignity, hasn't she?

 

What if he has to kill her for it?

 

He comes out of the bathroom, and looks at her quizzically. “Why haven't you gotten dressed?” he asks. “The target's going to be alone in his hotel room for twenty minutes, and we only have three hours to get there and set up.”

 

“Sorry,” Tara says again as she stands. “I'll be quick.” She pulls a bundle of clothes out of her backpack and scampers past him into the bathroom, which is still hot and humid. She washes her face and scrapes her greasy bangs back from her forehead, but she still feels kind of gross. No time for an actual shower, though. She has an assassination to enable. She's glad that her clothes are baggy and unflattering. Something tight would send the wrong message. She's in serious trouble, isn't she?

 

“I'm really sorry about how in bed--” she says, but Slade's already left the room. She can see through the blinds that he's getting into the car, so she chases after him with her sneakers in her hands.

 

“Please don't be mad at me,” she pleads. The car door is unlocked, so at least he's not leaving without her. “I'm really sorry that I--”

 

“Nothing abnormal happened,” Slade says quietly. “You're reading too far into this.”

 

Neither of them mentions it again. Tara is mostly relieved, but also confused, and kind of grimy. She really shouldn't complain, but it's not fair to be in the bathroom for so long when somebody else is waiting.

\---

They corner the CEO in his nice hotel room. What a stupid person. Shouldn't he have taken precautions? He didn't even ask the receptionist not to write his name down. There are multiple keys for every room, in case one gets lost or multiple people are staying, and Tara was able to chatter away with the receptionist while Slade quietly slips behind her and finds the target's room key.

 

“That David,” she'd said. “He and Katrina are going to break up, I think.”

 

“No,” said the receptionist. “Did you see them at the award show last night? They were so sweet together.”

 

“They're _actors_ , Deborah,” Tara said.

 

Deborah blushed and looked very sad, but Slade was already done and making the signal, so Tara skipped off to leave Deborah with her sad actor thoughts.

 

Anyway, now they're here in the hotel room, and the target is fat and sweating and has his back pressed against the wall.

 

“Smith, Smith, fucking Smith,” he says.

 

“Fucking Smith,” Tara says, nodding. “You disagreed about the merger, right?”

 

“Terra,” Slade says, keeping the pistol on level with the target's head. “Behave.”

 

“I'm behaving,” Tara says, crossing her arms. “Just shoot the guy.”

 

Slade's posture remains tense, and the target keeps sweating and breathing heavily. His eyes are wide, like a frightened animal's, darting around and looking for an escape. There's no escape. Deathstroke is a thorough person. Suddenly, Slade relaxes slightly, and, still keeping the gun cocked and pointed, tilts his head toward Tara.

 

“Care to do the honors?” he asks.

 

Tara's gut drops. She knew this would happen, but she hadn't expected it to happen _now_. She's not prepared. She's seen plenty of people die by now, but she's just watched. She's paid close attention, but she's not ready for this. She's still a kid. She-- no.

 

Slade reaches out and holds the man against the wall with one hand, and makes direct eye contact with Tara as he hands her the pistol. She accepts carefully, keeps eye contact. It's warm and heavy, like a living thing.

 

She holds it as she was taught, cocks it as she was taught. Slade keeps the target pressed down and still, watches her carefully. Tara presses the muzzle against bridge of the target's nose, because her hands are shaking slightly and she doesn't want to miss. The target's eyes dart from side to side, like an over-fast pendulum in an old dusty clock. Tara pulls the trigger, as she was taught.

 

Time slows down.

 

When a person gets shot in the face at such close range, their heads don't explode the way they do in the movies. There's expansion, sure, but that's inside the skull, and the bullet passes right through. It gets buried in the wall in a gray-pink mess. The entrance wound is small and round, and the gunpowder leaves tiny specks of burnt skin around it.

 

Well, he's definitely dead. They've met that specification.

 

Tara is still living in slow motion. She's disgusted, probably because she doesn't like blood in the first place. She's proud, because she's done what had to be done. She's frightened, because even if she was never a good person, killing someone automatically changes her category from “mean” to “face-shooter.” Most of all, though, her heart is pounding so hard that she can almost hear it, and her arms are aching from the recoil, and she smells gore and hotel soap and she can feel every part of herself, each blood vessel and each prickling hair and the motion of her eyelids and the swelling and collapsing of her diaphragm, like ocean tides, like--

 

She looks over at Slade. He nods.

 

She's smiling, and she's not completely sure why, but this is more alive than she's felt in years.

\---

“ _You're my sister,” Brion said in his funny accent. He was only a little bigger than her, with messy red hair and light freckles. He was wearing obnoxiously wealthy-looking clothes: a checkered sweatervest over a pale blue shirt and dark shorts with bright white knee socks. She wanted to push him in the mud and make him less perfect. “But you only say English, right?” They were sitting on a stone wall by the hedge maze. Brion was swinging his legs carelessly, as though a stone wall by a hedge maze were something normal. Tara had never seen such a big garden in her life, but she wasn't about to let herself be impressed._

 

“ _Just English.” Tara nodded. “I can count to three in Spanish, though.” She was upset enough that she'd been uprooted. She could have lived on her own, even without Mama. She hated to admit it, but it would probably be easier. She'd just have to ride the bus to school and buy groceries alone, which didn't seem that hard. That apartment belonged to her, and she belonged to it. How dare some stranger--_

 

“ _What's America like?” he asked. “Do you eat hot dogs every day?”_

 

“ _Goldfish crackers,” she said. “And orange juice.”_

 

“ _I will remember that,” he said solemnly. “The servants will make accommodations.”_

 

“ _Why are you a prince?” Tara asked. A little bird was hopping around on the ground, annoyingly cheerful. Tara wanted to scare it away. It shouldn't be so satisfied with its life. “Why is your father a king? How did he get a country?”_

 

“ _I think... the word is 'inheritance,' right?” Brion grinned at her, as though she was exciting somehow. “My father's father was a king, and his father was a king, and it goes on. We are not that old, but we have inheritance.”_

 

“ _Mama never told me about a king,” Tara said. “She said to say my daddy died in a wildfire.”_

 

“ _That's terrible!”_

 

“ _Mama was great! Your mother is so stiff, but my Mama moved like an actual person!”_

 

_Something flashed across Brion's face. Anger? Hurt? Tara couldn't tell. He didn't say anything angry or hurt, though. In stead, he politely asked about schools in America._

 

“ _Teacher won't let me say a lot of words,” Tara said. “And people keep throwing up.”_

 

“ _It's better here,” Brion said. “I have a tutor. His name is Pyotr, and he knows how to make a coin disappear.”_

 

“ _Magic is fake.”_

 

“ _I guess,” he said, a little sadly. Tara felt a surge of vindictive pleasure at that. “But science is real, and we have that, too.”_

 

“ _Science,” Tara said. “Like bugs and rocks and stuff, right? I'm good at that.”_

 

“ _Like medicine. We have this doctor--”_

 

“ _Drug dealer,” Tara said, pulling her knees up to her chin, and burying her nose in the denim of her overalls. They were new. They smelled like staining indigo._

 

“ _And she says our blood is special.” Brion's eyes lit up, and he smiled like sunshine. “She's nice,” he adds. “She's been doing some tests, and they are-- um-- 'cold,' I think. She does cold science.”_

 

“ _Good for her,” Tara said, rolling her eyes. “I don't care.”_

 

_Brion seemed to take the hint, and changed the subject. “Our largest brother Gregor is going to be a king,” he said. “He can't say any English, but I learned when I heard you were coming. Maybe you can help me teach him?”_

 

“ _Your brother,” Tara said. “Not mine.”_

 

“ _Same father.”_

 

“ _He inseminated my mother, but he was never home with us.”_

 

“ _'In-sem-inated?'” Brion paused, tilted his head, then gave up. “He was home with me and Gregor. If he knew about you, I'm sure that...”_

 

_Tara shook her head. “He sent papa-checks. He knew. He didn't want to see us, because we're crazy. That's our inheritance.”_

 

“ _Your inheritance?”_

 

“ _She's gone, so it's just mine, now,” Tara said, staring at the little bird. It wasn't a blue jay. She didn't recognize any of the birds in this country, or understand what people were saying, or even read street signs. “I don't know what to do with it. It's all I have left from her.”_

 

“ _But you're part of my family now, too,” Brion said. “So you have more than that.”_

 

“ _I don't want it,” Tara said, lowering her head and hiding behind her knees. “I want what's mine.”_

 

“ _I'm... I'm sorry,” he said, awkwardly patting her back. “You don't have to join the family, maybe.”_

 

“ _Already decided not to.”_

 

“ _You won't have to love my father like I do. You don't have to love any of us.”_

 

“ _I don't,” she said, hugging her knees more tightly. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes. “I only loved Mama, but not enough. Even though we're crazy and alone, I couldn't take care of her.”_

 

“ _Can I be your brother, at least?” Brion asked. “Not to love, but to know I'm there.”_

 

_Tara shook her head, left tear streaks on the legs of her overalls. “I don't need one.”_

 

“ _Then... If that's the case, can I be your-- um-- your first-aid kit. Emergency assets?”_

 

_Tara looked up, snotty-nosed and red-faced. “What?”_

 

“ _Emergency assets. You don't need a brother, but if you do, I can be one.” He smiled again, all bright and sweet. “You don't have to join the family, but if you ever need a brother, you can call me.”_

 

“ _Why would I need a brother?” she asked._

 

“ _To say you do,” Brion said. “To scare someone-- 'my large brother is coming for you,' or to help you up when you're hurt. A brother for complaining to. Those things.”_

 

_The little bird on the ground looked up at them, as though it was noticing them for the first time. It flew away, twittering rapidly. Tara was quiet for a moment, mulled over the offer._

 

“ _If you're my brother, then I have to be your sister,” she said. “I don't know how to do that.”_

 

“ _That's no problem,” he said. “I won't call on you if you don't know how. I just think... I think it's bad to be alone all the time, and you're always saying as if that's how-- no. You're saying in an alone way.”_

 

“ _Your English is really bad,” she said, because that was the only thing she could think to say. He was an embarrassing person, and she was catching his stupid._

 

“ _But I can say two languages, and you can only say one.”_

 

“ _Speak two languages, dumbass.” She smiled. “It's 'speak,' not 'say.'”_

 

“ _That doesn't make sense,” he said. He looked genuinely worried, but then he held out his hand. “Do you want to make a deal with me?” he asked. “To not be alone.”_

 

“ _I...” Tara stared at the hedge maze. In movies, hedge mazes always had secrets at their centers. If she was going to wander through it and find its secrets, maybe it would better not to do it alone. “I'll make a deal,” she said, and clasped his hand._

 

_They shook once, firmly._

 

_That was how Tara got her emergency asset brother._

_\---_

Tara's run out of Donnie-cigarettes, but she's got a fake ID, so she just picks some more up at the convenience store. Slade's been giving her cuts of money from the jobs she helps with, and while he doesn't give her much, it's enough for her to buy frivolous things. She spots Sandwich Boy lurking in the corner as she tucks a pack of Camels into her pink backpack. He doesn't even seem to recognize her.

 

He pockets a pack of Twinkies, and she wonders why she was ever scared of him. Looking at him now, she realizes that he's just a scraggly little teenage boy covered in bruises. He's still living the rat life, she figures. By now, if she'd kept that lifestyle, she would be dead. Sandwich Boy isn't exactly thriving, but he has a pocket full of stolen snack cakes and his face isn't too dirty.

 

She doesn't feel any pity for him, because he wanted to take advantage of the fact that she was weaker than him. Now, she's undoubtedly stronger than he is. She's killed a man, and she doesn't feel bad about it. She could chase Sandwich Boy out of his alley and take everything for herself, but she doesn't need to now. She is officially too good for him, and that's a great feeling.

 

Come to think of it, she could probably take on those bounty hunters who'd harassed her back then (almost two years ago!). She would actually be able to kill them herself, maybe. Of course, if she killed them herself, she never would have met Slade, and that would kind of suck. She likes Slade. He's good company.

\---

“Happy birthday,” Slade says as he enters the room without knocking.

 

“Thanks,” Tara says, looking up from another adventure novel, from a different garbage can. “Fifteen today. That's pretty adult, I think.”

 

“It is,” Slade says.

 

They split the cupcake. It's super weird to see Slade eating anything other than necessary grains and proteins, but they're celebrating together this time. She's gotten pretty attached to him, and she'd like to think he's attached to her.

 

This is trusting someone, maybe.

\---

They've been training with staffs for about half an hour. Tara's getting sore, but there's no way she's going to give in before she's had her ass totally kicked. Nothing but the thoroughest ass-kicking will make her stop.

 

Slade is always faster than she is, always smarter. But Tara has an advantage: when you're small, you have a lot more room to navigate. So, yes, he manages to hit her shins and knock her flat on the ground. But she's able to roll right between his knees and thwack him on the back, which he didn't see coming, and that is a pretty great feeling.

 

He pauses for the briefest second, but Slade doesn't pause.

 

“Getting tired, gramps?” she teases. This time he hits her in the chest, and that's a lot harder to recover from. All the same, she enjoys it. He doesn't hold back when he fights her, and that's respect. She keeps on weaving around him, looking for a weak spot. He doesn't have any, because he's better than her at everything, but, whatever. She dives at him anyway, and immediately gets shoved against the wall. She lets go of her staff. Stupid.

 

“Checkmate,” Slade says, pinning her to the wall with his staff at her throat. They're nose-to-nose, but she has had her ass kicked thoroughly, so she doesn't want to headbutt him.

 

“Whoops,” she says, still trying to catch her breath. “Looks like you got me.” She tries to move, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he gives her this look, as though she's said something very strange. She pushes at him a little with her hands. “Hey, you won,” she says. “Back off, I need to take a shower.”

 

He finally backs off. Tara slumps down to the ground and wipes sweat from her forehead. She stands up, winces a little, and turns to head for the stairs, but he puts a hand on her shoulder.

 

“You should start wearing a bra,” he says, dead serious.

 

“What?” Tara recalls a similar discussion a while back, except that they'd been on opposite sides that time. “I don't own any.”

 

“You're sending the wrong message,” he says. He seems a bit annoyed now. “It's not appropriate.”

 

“I don't have any,” Tara repeats. “And who's getting the message?”

 

“Go take your shower. We'll talk about this later.”

 

She takes her shower, but now she's confused, and being confused puts her in a bad mood. Her teen magazine has started to get annoying. Maybe it's just because she's getting older, or maybe it's because she hasn't had any updates on David and Katrina's situation in two years.

 

She smokes a cigarette and stares at the wall for a while before going to sleep.

 

A few days later, a plastic shopping bag full of bras shows up in her room. They're mostly athletic, but a couple of them are lacy lingerie sets, like you'd find in one of those sexy stores that nobody is allowed to go into ever.

  
Variety is the spice of life, she guesses.

 

Everything fits perfectly.

\---

“What is this?” Slade asks, walking into her room. He's holding the magazine, which is faded and a little ripped, but still good. She must have left it lying around somewhere. How irresponsible.

 

“Found it,” Tara says, blushing a little. It's stupid, and it's old, and it's annoying, but it's hers and she likes it. “A while back.”

 

“I looked through it,” Slade says. “It talks a lot about attracting boys.”

 

“Yeah,” Tara says, shrinking a little. This is embarrassing.

 

“Are you spending a lot of time thinking about that?” Slade asks. “How to become attractive.”

 

“N-- no,” Tara says, shaking her head rapidly. “I don't like boys. I mean, it's not like I'm-- ugh. I've never really been into dating.”

 

Slade looks at her skeptically. “So, you've never been interested in anyone.”

 

“No.” Tara's being honest here. She really has never paid any attention to boys. Maybe it's a side effect of spending her adolescence without anyone her own age, but either way, boys aren't an issue.

 

“Has anyone ever been interested in _you?_ ”

 

“Nope,” Tara says. She wants her magazine back, but then she remembers something. “Back when I was a kid, before I started working with you, there was one boy.”

 

“Explain.” Slade is looking at her very intensely, and she doesn't know why, so now she's nervous. When she's nervous, it looks like she's lying (which is dumb, because she doesn't get nervous when she lies, usually), so this is problematic.

 

“Um, I called him Sandwich Boy,” Tara says. “He was tall, kind of pointy, always looked like he'd just gotten out of a brawl. We were always fighting over the garbage behind this sandwich shop near the edge of town, and he kept on beating me up. But one day, for some reason, he decided that I liked him, and he tried to get me to be his girlfriend.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Uhh...” Tara's grown up a lot since she was thirteen. Her vocabulary has expanded, partially because she's spent a lot of time cursing and getting cursed at. She's good with context clues, as a rule. “He wanted me to do, uh, sex stuff with him in exchange for bread rolls. I got really pissed off and stopped going to that spot, but then I was hardly able to find anything for a couple of weeks, so I changed my mind. I wasn't able to find him, though, so I didn't.”

 

“Did you ever meet him again?”

 

“He spotted me a while back and basically told me I was a slut because I was wearing clean clothes, which makes zero sense,” Tara says, rolling her eyes at the memory. “And then, last month, I saw him in a convenience store, but he didn't see me. He was looking kinda rough.”

 

“Interesting,” Slade says, even though it really isn't.

 

“I think I won, in the end,” Tara says. “He's a creep, but I think he's still dumpster-diving for food, and I'm working with you, so it's pretty obvious who's got it better.”

 

Slade nods, but he seems lost in thought.

\---

Markovia is barely a country, so hurting it is a stupid thing to do. It's more of a city-state than anything; the capital is where most of the political and economic business is handled. The royal family has been the same narrow line since its inception, and half the streets are named after them. The rest of the place is small villages populated by farmers and miners. All together, the population is under a hundred thousand, and it's aging as younger citizens wander off to more modern parts of the world.

 

Such a useless place. Why would anybody start a coup? Isn't it pointless? There's no glory in destroying something that's already weak and dying, is there?

 

Viktor Markov, the aging king, has been killed by political radicals aiming to reset the system and make a place for their country on the map. Those radicals have been killed by palace guards who were so shocked by the sudden chaos that they couldn't do the only thing they were supposed to do.

 

The king's eldest son, Gregor, has been coronated. He's a handsome young man with dark brown hair and piercingly blue eyes, and he's well-liked by the populace. His younger brother, Brion, who had been studying in America, is going to be landing at the country's sole airport on Tuesday morning to discuss the situation.

 

Viktor was a pathetic old son of a bitch. Tara knows that. She knows that he could fall in love so madly with a woman that he would betray his family for her, but then abandon her as soon as she lost her manic energy and slumped into a puddle of cold apathy. Viktor was the kind of man who would smile kindly for cameras and then walk off to his office without so much as looking at his children. He was the kind of man who would only own up to his mistakes when he was legally obligated to.

 

Tara knows that she was the one who got her powers first for a reason. She was a test run. In the most paranoid part of her mind, she suspects that her father was hoping that she'd die. She's hated him since she knew he existed.

 

But when Tara reads about it, a chill rolls through her body and she clutches the newspaper to her chest, suddenly unable to breathe.

 

Papa didn't die in a wildfire. If he's not there, there's a real reason now.

 

The story of the universe has been rewritten again.

 

She finds Slade, because he's constant, and the world has gravity and heat and isn't just some jumble of chaotic nothingness. She stutters an explanation through a waterfall of snot and tears before giving up on any dignity she had before and embracing him. Her arms don't reach all the way around his torso. He's solid and human and _real_ , and that's what matters. She's shaking violently, so she squeezes more tightly. He doesn't seem to care. He pets her head as though she's a small child (the way she stroked Mama's hair on bad days) and lets her cry it out. She's vomiting panicked words into his chest, but they're so muffled that they turn into incomprehensible sobs.

 

She isn't sure how long she spends crying. She isn't sure why she's so upset about somebody she hated.

 

Slade accepts this as a natural occurrence. He doesn't say anything falsely comforting, or try to calm her down. Instead, he lets her cry until she's dehydrated, and then tells her to wash her face.

 

That night, Tara can't sleep, and it frightens her. If she can't understand her own feelings, then can she understand anything?

 

Stupid.

\---

She does an ambush attack. She doesn't do enough of them, but that might actually make things better. He's in the big main room, looking over a list of contract requests. She knows he's going to turn most of them down. She manages to sneak up on him from behind one of the huge fossilized machines and tackle him. She's not heavy enough to knock him over, but she throws him off-balance and is able to be back on her feet before he can catch her.

 

He seems to appreciate this, since he puts down the file and takes a swing at her, which she dodges (expertly, she might add). They spar for several minutes, which is mostly him trying to hit her and her dodging, and her trying to hit him and missing. Finally, he lands a blow to her legs that she knows is going to knock her down. She tries to shift her weight and catch herself, but she fails, and just crashes into him. He catches her, which saves her a little humiliation.

 

Then, he doesn't let go.

 

She looks up at him, and he looks down at her. He seems to be lost in thought. This has been happening a lot lately. She hopes he's okay. What if it's the same kind of situation her mother had? Is he going to start having mood swings and forgetting to feed himself? Is she going to have to go all parent on him? Will she remember how to do it right? He's still holding on to her.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks. Actually, she _starts_ to ask, because before she's done speaking he's started kissing her.

 

On the mouth.

 

Very intensely.

 

Her immediate reaction is confusion, and, as usual, confused leads to angry. Unfortunately, there's no way she can express this, because somebody's tongue is in her mouth and her arms are pressed between her chest and his, and she can't free them. He shifts a little, and her arms are able to escape, but she can't seem to push hard enough for him to notice.

 

What the fuck is going on?

 

His hand is in her hair, keeping her head in place. His other hand is dragging her up by the small of her back, pressing her hips against his, and she tries to reposition herself to lose that contact, but she can't and everything is just thrashing, and why is he doing this? This makes absolutely no sense, no sense, what's happening? His grip is so tight that it hurts, he makes a sort of quiet groaning sound into her mouth, keeps on grinding against her and she can't even _move_ right now so why does he think this is a good idea?

 

Finally, he removes his face from her face, and gazes breathlessly at her.

 

“Why...?” she starts to ask a question, and then decides that it would do more harm than good. She trails off into silence and weighs her options. She hadn't seen any romantic potential for this relationship. The idea of it makes her kind of squeamish. Why did he think this was okay? Why did he just grab her without giving her any signals or warnings? Are you supposed to give signals? What are the rules here? But, then again, she _had_ sexually aroused him in the motel. If that's not a signal, then what is?

 

He's not necessarily unattractive. He's tall and strong and and is much handsomer than plenty of people she's met (Donnie, the Sweat Client, Sandwich Boy). She's never really thought much about boys. Men. Adult men, who are as old as her super-pathetic, super-dead father, who get erections when she sleeps next to them.

 

This is the only successful interpersonal relationship she's had. He's accepted her for all her nastiness, and here she is getting snotty because he's a little older than she is (after all, he doesn't seem to care that she's younger, so who's she to complain?). If this is what it takes to maintain this relationship, then it's not that bad. She's mature enough to handle it.

 

She's spent far too long brooding. She's still being held, loosely, in his arms. She can't read the expression on his face. Carefully, she slips out of his grasp and stands on her own feet. She knows her options are, and this definitely isn't the worst one.

 

“Why didn't you just say so?” she says, smiling. She stands up on her toes, like a ballerina, laces her fingers together behind his neck, and kisses him herself. She puts all her determination into that kiss, every confused and unsettling thought.

 

With this, she's signing a contract.

\---

Their relationship doesn't actually change that much.

 

They still train, and they still don't hold back. Tara still can't take as much damage as Slade can, and she'll probably never be able to, but she's also still much smaller than he is, which means that she's still a difficult target to hit.

 

She keeps tagging along when he gets jobs. Now, she's there for almost all of them. When they're around other people, they play the father-daughter game, or the associates game, or the “just shut up and let her hide inside your house” game. When they're alone, she does her best to be seductive and mature, smiling coyly and leaning into tight embraces and soft caresses.

 

This is what adulthood is like, she decides.

 

She does her best not to let it on to the public what kind of relationship they have. Of course, they stay out of the public eye, but when they meet clients, she keeps a professional distance and pretends to be a child. It's a little harder when Slade's hand is high on her leg under the table, but she's always been a good liar.

 

It's even fun, sometimes. Having a secret. It's something only the two of them know about, and that's special. Once she manages to get over the initial disgust, she can even enjoy being touched sometimes. She hasn't had this much body-to-body contact since she was eight years old and living with her mother, so being held and having her hair petted makes her feel oddly nostalgic.

 

Of course, Mama never groped her ass, but that's part of adulthood, so who gives a shit? It doesn't matter anyway.

\---

The news is playing on the TV in the storefront window at sunset. Tara's had the whole day off, so she's smoking a cigarette and reading the subtitles to fight away boredom.

 

You shouldn't watch the news if you're not ready to be in a bad mood. The news is always about sad things. Strange things.

...

Things that can't possibly be true. A yearbook photo of a familiar face is floating next to a solemn-faced anchor, who is absolutely a liar.

 

_The body of an adolescent boy was found this morning near the docks, with several layers of bruises, a broken jaw, and two bullet wounds to the groin and the chest. It was identified as Roderick Wells, a sixteen-year-old student at the public high school. Wells had a history of running away and delinquent behavior, and had been held back in school multiple times._

 

_The police are being cautious about using the term “murder” to describe this situation. It could have been any number of things, since Wells, while he had never been arrested for any violent crimes, had several small weapons, including a switchblade, on his person. While there were no obvious signs of a struggle, there's a chance that Wells could have been killed in a fight with another delinquent._

 

_In other news, representatives from Qurac are denying any connection to..._

 

Tara knows Sandwich Boy isn't in his alley tonight. It's not his anymore.

 

She checks just to be certain, but it's empty.

 

She doesn't have it in her to say “good riddance,” but it's a stark reminder that time is passing. Another person she hated is dead. Once again, she can't help but grieve.

\---

Slade tells her to handle a contract solo. It's not particularly complicated. She's supposed to guard an illegal weapons shipment which is moving from Bludhaven to Gotham, make sure that it ends up with the right person, and then return home. She'll be riding on an airplane (alone), meeting with the client, who Slade has dealt with before and approved of, in person (alone), and she'll be standing watch by several crates of decoy coal (alone) looking innocent and making sure that nobody interferes.

 

“Doesn't Gotham have a whole army of capes?” she asks.

 

“Batman's off the planet right now, and Robin is with the Teen Titans,” Slade says. “Batgirl is the only one in the city at the moment, and she's tough, but you could take her.”

 

Tara nods. She's absolutely terrified, but she's not about to let that on.

 

She passes through airport security without a hitch. The plane trip is pretty short, but she has to sit next to a very talkative woman who keeps on asking her stupid questions (Are you a student? Do you have any careers in mind? Would you like some of my crackers?). She tries not to think about the last time she rode an airplane.

 

The client is waiting at the airport. He's an unassuming sort of fellow, tall and thin with brown hair and round glasses. He immediately recognizes her based on the description Slade gave him (blonde, solitary, wearing a _Care Bears_ hoodie and pink knee socks, glowering).

 

“The Terminator said you were really good,” says the client as he drives her to the harbor. “You're, uh, a lot smaller than I imagined.”

 

“They don't make these in adult sizes,” she says, gesturing to her hoodie. For some reason, Slade still insists on dressing her in embarrassingly bright colors. He says that the childish look makes people less suspicious, and as long as she's small, she might as well take advantage of it. She feels like a moron.

 

“Wait, are you an actual kid, or just short?” he asks. He looks confused.

 

“What do you think?” Tara asks, shooting him her one of her patented mercenary glares.

 

That shuts him up for a while.

 

Since Bludhaven and Gotham are just across the bay from each other, it's not a long job. There are other, burlier people guarding the weapons, whose crates are safely hidden in much larger crates of coal. They try to make small talk, but Tara ignores them. She's just trying not to ooze anxiety.

 

Tara is a secret weapon here. Metahuman heroes are rare in Gotham, mostly because the Bat is so territorial. He usually chases away any superheroes who try to interfere with his business, because he likes to be the boss of any crime-fighting that's going on. Because of this, the only people who protect the city are just regular old people who happen to be good at kicking (Tara figures they're probably just his friends and he put them in matching costumes). And since both he and his little shadow (or, maybe not so little anymore, and not so much of a shadow) are out of town, Tara's only got the police and one cape to deal with. And she knows they won't expect her to fuck up the concrete they're standing on.

 

“Who sent the kid, anyway?” asks one of the regular-burly-dude guards. Tara grits her teeth.

 

“Boss said not to think too much about it, Jeff,” says his friend. “I think she might be some kind of tyke bomb.”

 

They keep on chattering like a pair of dumb teenage girls while Tara focuses on her breathing and how pissed off she is at the moment. She's not completely sure why she's so mad, but it's probably going to be useful in the long run. Angry Tara is better at most things than regular Tara. Angry Tara is a fucking powerhouse.

 

They land at the harbor, and, as expected, there are several unlabeled eighteen-wheelers waiting for them. The burly guys begin to wheel the crates onto the dock, when suddenly some pointy thematic item buries itself right next to Jeff's hand.

 

“Seriously?” someone asks from the top of a warehouse, in a high clear voice. “Did no one tell you that you weren't allowed to just bring those big guns in without permission?”

 

Damn it. Tara recognizes her from the photos. Batgirl is standing all pretty and dramatic, silhouetted by the city lights with her cape and long hair floating in the breeze. Why couldn't she have stayed inside tonight? Bats have to have R&R days, right?

 

This is her cue. Tara runs forward and drags her arms back, pulling the concrete walls of the warehouse toward her. Batgirl staggers for a second, but gracefully leaps forward onto one of the semi-trailers, albeit with a harsh “thunk.”

 

“I see how it is,” Batgirl says, tossing her bright red hair back. “Wanna dance, shortie?”

 

“My pleasure,” Tara responds.

\---

In the end, they're able to get about half of the weapons safely moved, but eventually Batgirl successfully kicks Tara's ass, and the police show up. The cops catch the guards who haven't already split, but Tara's able to slip away into the shadows and and catch her breath under a dock (thank goodness for low tide). At this point, Tara's figured out that her main job here was “Cape Distractor,” and she wishes that somebody had told her beforehand. She could have been even more distracting.

 

She managed to cause plenty of property damage, but she didn't do any coal-lobbing. Pretty much everything she did involved concrete and collapsing, which really isn't Tara's strong suit. Yes, making a little hole in the road for a ginger to fall into is an efficient way to stop her for approximately ten seconds when she has a grappling hook, but Tara is a natural rocks kind of gal. Now, put her next to a volcano where she can get her hands on some nice textured diorite, and _then_ she'll be queen of the world.

 

Mmm. Maybe some felsic lava. That shit's rubbery and squishy and awesome, and even though touching it does burn your skin off, it sure is fun to bend it around and watch it jiggle. Gotta love some silica. Mafic is nice too. Faster-flowing, but nice and crackly when it cools down.

 

Tara's getting distracted. The job is over and she can go home. She gets some concealer at a local pharmacy to cover up the top-quality black eye Batgirl gave her (even though they disagree on some basic ideological issues, Tara can appreciate a good punch). The cashier gives her a sympathetic look, so Tara gives the cashier the finger. She doesn't need sympathy, she needs concealer, and maybe some Motrin.

\---

When she gets home, she gives Slade a theatrical description of what went down. He seems to enjoy most of it, but he reprimands her for running away when the police showed up.

 

“I don't want them to recognize me,” she says. “I'm not ready to be on any wanted lists yet.”

 

“Dead men don't send in reports,” Slade says. Tara slouches, but he pats her shoulder. “You'll do better next time,” he says.

 

Of course, there have been some reports of Deathstroke hanging around with a young girl, but that young girl is as of yet unidentified. For all the public knows, there's a whole horde of similar-looking little girls trailing a famous mercenary for no particular reason. Anyway, most people who aren't involved with crime or crime-fighting don't even know who Deathstroke is, let alone whoever his assistant might be. Tara's face hasn't shown up on TV or in any papers, and she hasn't been directly linked to any crimes. She's off the radar, and she wants to keep it that way.

 

It's not because she's scared. She just doesn't want to have to handle infamy. She's like her Mama in that way. She doesn't like being in the public eye, or anyone's eye, for the most part. In a perfect world, she would let herself be a secret through and through.

\---

“Hey,” Tara says, curled up on his lap after an evening of sparring. “How did you even get into this business?”

 

“It happened a long time ago,” Slade says. “It's not a story you want to hear.”

 

“I didn't ask when, I asked _how,_ ” she mutters. She knows he's not going to answer, because when he doesn't want to do something, he won't do it. She tries to work on the same principle, but she's maybe a little easier to bend.

 

All the same, she's the one in control of her life. This is the path she's chosen.

 

“There's something I'd like you to do for me,” he says. That's unusual wording. Usually, she just gets instructions and follows them, and he pats her on the head and says she's done a good job. He's approaching this delicately. Why?

 

“I'm open to requests,” she says. “What's the situation?”

 

“You know the Teen Titans, right?' he asks.

 

“Kind of,” she answers. She's seen them on TV, and occasionally she's seen red streaks in the sky from the busty one zooming all over the place. She knows that Robin ditched Batman for them, so they must be pretty important, but she's never had any direct contact with them. “Should I?”

 

“The Titans and I have had a... complicated relationship over the years,” he says. She immediately becomes painfully curious, but she knows better than to interrupt. “They have a history of getting in my way while I'm trying to get things done within city limits. I think they think of me as some kind of nemesis. Robin, especially.” His eye looks a little nostalgic, and she's still burning with curiosity, but she isn't stupid.

 

“Should I learn more about them?” she asks. “I mean, if they've bothered you before, they'll probably bother me, too.”

 

“I have an unfulfilled contract to kill them,” Slade says. “It was issued to somebody else, almost four years ago. That person died trying to fulfill it.”

 

“Yikes,” Tara says, because she doesn't know what the appropriate response is.

 

“I tried to ignore it. I went through a... dark period, and made some very poor decisions. I lost a dear friend because of that,” he says.

 

“I'm sorry,” she says. Her heart is pounding for some reason. She's being told a secret, certainly.

 

“I have unfinished business with the Titans,” he says. “And I need you to help me finish it.”

 

She leans into him a little bit, because it seems like the right thing to do. “I'll do my best,” she says.

\---

She starts researching the Titans. They really do remind her of Brion. Robin, of course, is the most popular one. Most of the Robin-related media she's encountered show him as a spritely little boy bouncing around behind Batman, but apparently now he's adult-height with a pretty face and a more serious attitude. He appears to be wearing the exact same shorts he wore when he was nine. They don't leave much to the imagination.

 

Everyone else seems kind of boring. The newspaper articles about them are always so damn cute. Look, Starfire helped a little boy find his mommy! Kid Flash is telling kids that drugs won't make them good at sports! Cyborg gave a talk about disability to a bunch of elementary schoolers! Changeling showed up in the lemur exhibit at the city zoo with no explanation, and nobody got mad at him even though he ate half the lemurs' food!

 

Gross. They're giving her a toothache.

 

She starts making an effort to spot them when she makes outings. Once or twice, she sees Starfire dragging one of the other Titans (The gloomy one. Her name is Raven, and she doesn't ever get on the news) between shops and restaurants, chattering loudly. She also spots Cyborg playing fetch with Changeling in a dog park. It's kind of weird, but they're still laughing and smiling. Everything they do is so _wholesome._ Are they even real people?

 

All the same, she takes notes diligently, because this is her project, and she gets her projects done.

 

After a week of stalking, all she's managed to get from them is “Wonder Girl and Starfire eat ice cream without getting changed out of their costumes” and “Robin likes to hide in shrubberies and wants Kid Flash to join him, but he won't, because it makes him jittery.”

 

“So, basically, they're like a county boy's and girl's club, except also they keep getting in the way of people trying to work,” she summarizes. “They're really boring, and I'm not sure why anyone would want to kill them, but it doesn't look like it would actually be that hard.”

 

“They're stronger than they look,” Slade says. “Have you seen them fighting?”

 

Tara shakes her head. “Not in person. They're strong, but they seem kinda... naive, I guess? They don't look like they're able to fight dirty. We could beat them easy.”

 

“No, we couldn't,” Slade says. He sounds irritated. Tara should have kept her mouth shut. “I've tried.”

 

“So, what do we do, then?” Tara asks. “Do we have any, like, sabotage techniques? I think Starfire would be pretty easy to trick. You'd just need to put something shiny in a box with a stick keeping it open and then, _pow,_ caught a Starfire.”

 

“You're right,” Slade says. “They are naive, and we do have sabotage techniques.”

 

“Great,” Tara says. “What are they?”

 

“I want you to become a Teen Titan.”

 

What the fuck? What. The fuck. Wouldn't becoming a Teen Titan be the opposite of what she wants to do? She doesn't want to spend time around those idiots. What if Cyborg blows a fuse and she has to fix it? What if Raven finally snaps and murders everybody and she's part of that “everybody?” What if Changeling turns into a dog and humps her leg? There are endless possibilities for disaster.

 

“No,” she says, making a dramatic gesture with her cigarette. It leaves a satisfying smoke trail. “No way am I doing that. They're like a bunch of retarded seven-year-olds who can blow shit up. I do not want to be in the middle of that.”

 

“Yes,” he says. “It's the only way we can win.”

 

“ _Why?_ ”

 

“You aren't stupid, Tara. I need you to move in with them, befriend them, and learn all their secrets. Then, we can make our move and fulfill the contract.”

 

Tara sighs and brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “Lemme get this straight. You want me to move out. So I can live with the Titans. Who you hate.”

 

“I _want_ you to be my spy. You can get information that I can't.” Tara does understand that bit. There's no way Slade could pass for under forty. She tries to imagine him dressed up as a hip young person, but it's kind of an unsettling image, so she tries to chase it out of her mind.

 

“I won't fit in with them,” she says, putting her cigarette back in her mouth. “I don't exactly give off a wholesome image, and they look like a church youth group.”

 

Slade smiles at that, and leans down to kiss her softly on the corner of her mouth.

 

“You'll clean up fine,” he says.

\---

Two weeks later, Tara's cut her hair neatly, put away her cigarettes and her curse words, and is back to squatting in her old cave. Tonight, she'll have a fated meeting.

 

She can hear loud, cheerful voices in the distance, the voices of people who think they're protecting a city, but are really just polishing a turd. She's going to become one of them. She's going to act as though she loves people, as though she's not broken and crazy and violent. She's going to learn how not to see the world for what it is.

 

She steps out into the cool night. The stars fade out against the city skyline, drowned by neon and streetlights. The wind is in her face, cool and fierce and tossing her hair wildly behind her. Tara smiles. Tara pulls up a sheet of sandstone and rides on out.

 

Tonight, she's going to become a Titan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some Notes:**  
>  The aedeagus is superficially similar to the mammalian penis but the situation is actually much more complicated than that. Not all species of slugs reproduce with love darts, but that situation has got to suck.
> 
> Jeffery was a sensitive boy, and Bill mostly just wanted attention.
> 
> Darla became a fairly successful car saleswoman, and her kid was pretty cute and generally well-behaved.
> 
> Slade's definition of "child" has been nebulous since his first appearance I'm talking to you Marv Wolfman you old man who made all my favorite characters come fight me
> 
> Penis Clown passed away when Tara left the building and Slade felt like it was staring at him, so he put it in the recycling.
> 
>  **Up Next:**  
>  Somebody experiences her First Teen Shenanigan. Somebody else won't chill the fuck out. A gremlin attempts to be seductive. Very inappropriate behavior from an adult authority figure escalates.


	3. Identities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tara learns a lot of secrets, and manages to get by without sharing any of her own. She is also escorted out of a Chuck E Cheese and meets an unlikable man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually tried to post this like 3 days ago, but my college recently marked AO3 as a potential risk site (adult content) so it fucked up the posting process :I 
> 
> So I did some editing and made a decision: this thing is already almost as long as EM, so I might as well give up on trying to put a chapter limit to it, since, well...
> 
> I have a quick question for you, but I'm putting it at the bottom so you'll remember it before you comment.
> 
> As usual, **TW FOR:** Inappropriate relationship between minor and adult, some psychiatric issues that go Untreated

  _Creepy._

 

That's the first word that comes into Terra's head when she sees Raven glaring at her from under a heavy cloak. It makes sense that this chick doesn't make many media appearances. She'd totally ruin the Titans' public image. She looks like a character from a horror movie, all pale and staring like a ghost.

 

She hopes she doesn't have to spend too much time with her.

 

All the same, Terra holds out her hand and grins as though she's a normal girl, and Raven shakes it carefully. Her hand is cold, and thin, and she doesn't let go when she's supposed to. Creepy.

 

“I'm new to this hero business,” Terra says, charmingly. “So please go easy on me.”

 

“She was living all alone in the desert,” Changeling says, ducking in between them and breaking the handshake that had already been going on for way too long. “She kind of freaked out on us at first, but then we got to talking and she's actually really cool!”

 

“Aw, shucks,” Terra says. Hell yeah, she's cool. She's just not quite cool enough to ditch these nerds and go watch a movie.

 

Raven continues to glare at her. It's kind of... kind of a Stanley Kubrick look? Yeah, it's a Kubrick glare. Classic. Terra doesn't have time to deal with this shit.

\---

Tara introduces herself as Tara Markov, codename Terra. It's not as if she's a big name in the underworld. Her backstory is almost her real one, but she's substituted the gorier and more illegal details for sob story stock fodder. Of course, there's no mention of Slade. The Titans eat her bullshit up like it's cotton candy. Idiots.

 

The Titans keep most of their information in a big, fancy-looking computer. Apparently, the important stuff is encrypted, the unimportant stuff is just lying around, and the games are free-to-play. Tara doesn't actually care about the games, but she makes a show of being interested for the sake of building her character. After all, she has to have some kind of personality to get the Titans to trust her, and her real one won't do.

 

When it's dark, and nobody is in the computer room, Tara plays around with the files she's not supposed to read. There's plenty of unencrypted, run-of-the-mill information lying around: the kind of stuff you find in magazine profiles and TV interviews. She figures that since the personnel files aren't password-protected, she's allowed to read them. Unfortunately, significant portions of them are unreadable nonsense, and even the readable parts seem to have been thrown together by a bunch of different people. She's never been good with computer stuff. She's more down-to-earth than that (haha). She lazily clicks through the files, but she really doesn't get anything particularly useful.

\---

Nailed 'em, first try. It took less than ten minutes. If Tara had known superheroing was such an easy job, she'd have started way earlier. Hell, maybe she'd have started as a kid (and never met Slade. Why does she keep having these kinds of thoughts?) Sure, she took out a healthy-sized chunk of road, and she did smash a car and trap a guy inside it. But it was a crime car, so that's fine, right?

 

“Terra, what the hell was that!?” Cyborg asks, gesturing at the aforementioned crime car.

 

Apparently, it isn't fine.

 

Wonder Girl is pulling the crumpled door off and Robin is explaining the situation to the police. Being in such close proximity to cops still makes Tara prickle. She needs to do a better job of hiding that, probably. As Wonder Girl drags the limp bank robber out of the car, Tara turns to make a getaway and avoid an unpleasant conversation. Unfortunately, when she turns, she's nose-to-nose with Miss Halloween xx84.

 

“He's alive,” Raven says flatly. Most of her face is shadowed by her blue hood, but her eyes are piercing. It's like Tara's been locked in place. “It looks like you didn't get it quite right.”

 

“Didn't mean to go so hard on him,” Tara says. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Sweat is beading on her forehead. “Just wanted to, uh, stop the car.”

 

“I'm going to go fix those bones you broke, now,” Raven says, walking smoothly away towards the car. Tara stands there for a second, shell-shocked.

 

“It's fine,” Changeling says, patting her on the shoulder. She jumps a little. She hadn't even seen him. “Raven's harsh sometimes. Everybody screws up a little on their first mission.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back, nervously. He's kind of a cute little thing. So optimistic. It's funny.

 

“We'll repair the damage,” Kid Flash says to the lady with the microphone. He looks a little embarrassed. “You don't need to pay for it. Since we did it, we can spend an afternoon fixing it. No, seriously, it'll only take an afternoon.” The microphone lady continues to look unimpressed. “Star, Cy, and Wondy are all super-strong, I can work really fast, and now we even have a... um, a pavement specialist.” He gestures towards Tara. Tara turns away. She still doesn't like being in the public eye, and even though she's inevitably going to wind up on TV or in the paper or something, she'd like to postpone it for as long as possible.

 

“Pavement specialist” is such a crude way of describing her powers. It's the whole damn ground. You're always standing on it. She can make it do weird shit, and that's cool. Pavement specialists... pavement specialists are probably people in glasses who spend a lot of time staring at sidewalks.

 

Even after Raven repairs the robber's injuries, he's still taken away in an ambulance to make sure that he'll be alright. Everybody is really apologetic about it, but Tara doesn't see what the big deal is.

 

Of course, back at Titans Tower, in the spacious living area in the main ops, Wonder Girl gives her a long talk about using her powers responsibly, and Robin, as backup, nods decisively and occasionally makes a “hmph” noise.

 

“Responsible” is a subjective word, Tara thinks. Responsible people finish their jobs, no matter what. Today, Tara was responsible, but she didn't follow the guidelines properly. She'll be more careful next time.

 

The only reason they worry about criminals is because killing people is bad TV. If this whole incident hadn't been in public, Tara doesn't think anyone would have cared.

\---

On days where nothing particularly terrible is going on, the Titans mostly play around. Sure, they have a gym and hurdles and such, but they don't devote whole days to improving. They just watch cartoons and cook pancakes. Starfire's making plans for a garden, and has a huge corkboard covered in ideas (mostly childish doodles of different plants and layouts). Cyborg is passed out on the floor with the TV still on. How lazy. Tara has to _work_ for her free time.

 

She still likes being able to lie on a couch and read up-to-date magazines, though. David and Katrina are going strong, but last year there was a scandal because another girl had said she was pregnant with David's baby. There was a huge TV event where she was revealed to be a liar, and America breathed a sigh of relief. Anyway, right now, neon colors and loose tops are in style.

 

“Hey,” Changeling says, leaning over the back on the couch to look over her shoulder. Again, she jumps a little. Why does he sneak up on her like that.

 

“Hey,” Tara says hesitantly. “'Sup, string bean?” Nicknames are good. Nicknames are endearing.

 

“You can just call me Gar,” he says. “I wanted to know if you were up to go to the arcade. I've been hoarding tokens.” He's blushing a little. Immediately, Tara recognizes what's going on. He has a thing for her. _Why?_

 

“Gar, as in...?” Tara tries to say it in the least sultry way possible. How sultry is her default? She doesn't know. This is weird.

 

“Garfield Logan!”

 

“Wow, you're pretty open about secret identities,” Tara says. If it's going to be this easy for all the Titans' secrets, she'll be done by next week.

 

“I'm green,” he says. He smiles again, and offers her a shiny arcade token. There's a picture of some mysterious critter on it. She takes it, and looks at it more closely.

 

“Holy shit,” she says, automatically. It's the dog-bird-hellbeast from her baby sweatshirt.

 

“Huh? What's wrong?” Gar leans in even closer, and she wishes he wouldn't, because he's making this awkward. “Is something wrong with the token?”

 

“What's this thing's name?” Tara asks, pointing at the mystery animal.

 

“Duck Dude,” Gar answers, looking a little perplexed. “Why?”

 

“I've just seen pictures of it,” Tara says. “I never knew what it was supposed to be, so it kind of freaked me out a little.”

 

“I'm still afraid of Ronald McDonald,” Gar says, nodding sympathetically. “And I'm pretty sure Starfire is afraid of the fairy godmother from _Cinderella_ , and I have no idea why.”

 

“How'd you like it if some old lady showed up in your house and started fucking around with your stuff?”

 

“Fair enough. You swear a lot.”

 

They go to the arcade. Tara's pretty great at the deer-hunting simulator, but she sucks at the pinball machine. There's an elaborate jungle gym right in the middle of it, which is only for children under twelve. Somebody in a Duck Dude mascot suit sidles up to her and asks her why she's so grumpy, and touches her head without permission, so she knees him in the stomach. Gar removes her from the premises.

 

“ _Be responsible, don't be so impulsive, don't hit people.”_ Ugh, she wants to puke.

\---

“They're so _annoying_ ,” Tara whines when she finally, finally gets to meet up with Slade. “'Do this, Terra, don't do that, Terra, do the laundry, Terra.' Just lectures, lectures, lectures.”

 

“I lectured you plenty when you first arrived,” Slade says. She leans more into his side. He wraps his arm more tightly around her shoulder. His hand slips under the collar of her shirt and he toys around with her bra strap. The ordinary.

 

“Yeah, but your lectures made sense,” she says. “And I was a kid then, and kids do dumb stuff. Anyway, I should be the one lecturing them. They waste so much time on goofing off. They'd be way better fighters if they worked like we do.” She tilts her head a little. “Actually, I think if they were more like us, they'd be better in general? Don't ya think?” She grins and waits for banter, but she doesn't get any.

 

“Just bear with it,” Slade says. “They're not as disciplined as us.” He pauses. “Except for Robin, maybe. You'll have to watch out for him.”

 

“When I met Batgirl, she beat me up,” Tara says. “Do you think she's told Robin about me?”

 

“I doubt it.”

 

There's an awkward silence. Most nights when Tara returns to the base, things go pretty simply. She reports her findings, Slade tells her she's done a good job. Occasionally, she'll kiss him quickly on the lips before leaving, just as an acknowledgment of their relationship. Some nights, there's an unspoken tension, the kind of tension that makes eye-contact and breathing embarrassing. Maybe it's ghost moth tension. Knowledge that something eventually must happen, but has not.

 

Tara stands to leave, but he grabs a hold of her arm and pulls her down, so her hand is on his leg and her eyes are looking directly into his. She feels a little afraid for a second, then closes her eyes and tilts her head forward. Her lips brush lightly against his, and she starts to pull back, but he tugs her arm _hard_ and she stumbles and he pulls her up again, lifts her face in his left hand and strokes her cheek with his thumb. There's a contemplative look on his face, but she's not really thinking about that because now her arm hurts.

 

“Don't forget,” he says quietly. The position she's in is uncomfortable. She's shaking a little.

 

“Don't forget what?” she asks, grinning. “I'm pretty sharp.”

 

“They'll want you to become one of them,” he says, still stroking her cheek.

 

“Not likely,” she says, and she tries to move in to do the kiss and end the interaction but he's kind of holding her in place. She's not sure whether it's annoying or unsettling. She doesn't actually care that much.

 

“Remember who you belong to,” he says, and he pulls her up for the kiss, and it's rougher than usual, with scraping teeth and bitten lips and a constant, firm grip on her arm and face, so much that he has to move her head for her to keep things going. She feels kind of like a ragdoll. Finally, he releases her, and she stumbles back, partially because of the lost support, and partially to put a little distance between them.

 

“I won't forget,” she says, and she smiles as slyly as she can. Her cheek has dug into her teeth, and the inside of it is bleeding. She's not going to let that show. “I'm not a dumb little girl. You know that, right, big guy?”

 

“Of course,” he says, smiling a little, and settles back into his seat..

 

The next morning she needs to cover up the bruise on her cheek, and her lips are still kind of swollen from the biting. If adult romance (or maybe just adult kissing? She's still not completely sure what's going on) didn't involve such violent intensity, maybe it would be easier to play at being a kid.

\---

“What's the secret identity rule around here, anyway?” Tara asks as she and Gar sit on top of the convenience store after a day of hunting for petty crime (a couple of years ago, she would have been the petty crime, wouldn't she?). For some reason, Robin keeps on sending them out alone together. Tara's pretty sure that Gar's crush on her is public information, but she hopes that Robin's not supporting it. She's aching for a cigarette right now, but she's got to keep on being wholesome if she wants to get anywhere with this job.

 

“What do you mean?” Gar asks.

 

“I know your name. _All_ of you guys know my name. I think I've heard people calling Cyborg 'Vic' before, so I think that's his name. Apparently, Robin's name is a double-secret, and I have no damn idea what Starfire's even doing, because she just prances around in public with her big-ass hair and her glowy eyes and nobody acts like it's weird.”

 

“It's an individual thing,” Gar says. “Since Batman's identity is really secret, Robin's has to be also. Cyborg was in an accident that got into the newspapers when it happened, so even though he uses a codename, his actual name is pretty easy to find. I don't think Starfire cares.”

 

“Do you know Robin's real name?”

 

“Yeah, but I'm not allowed to tell you.” He looks a little smug about this.

 

She bonks him on the head gently with her fist. He keeps on grinning like an idiot.

\---

_Brion was so eager to show her around, so horribly happy that she'd come. Apparently, Gregor was pretty aloof most of the time, being the crown prince and all. He had responsibilities. Brion, on the other hand, had free range of the castle and its gardens, a huge collection of cartoon movies on VHS tapes, and absolutely nobody his age to play with._

 

_Naturally, he insisted on being friends, even though Tara wasn't particularly into it. Even when her mother was doing well and didn't need to be looked after, she'd rarely spent much time with other kids outside of school back in America. Jeffery was okay, but that was mostly because he was a little slow and didn't notice that she was bad and crazy._

 

_Maybe Brion was slow too. Whatever._

 

_Tara's father didn't make too much of an effort to connect with her. Maybe it was because he was busy. Tara was pretty comfortable with that situation. She didn't know him, but she knew she hated him. It was simple like that. Before she met him, she knew she hated him, and when she met him and he was portly and royal with a white mustache, her convictions just grew stronger._

 

_But one day,she was sitting alone watching ants slowly harvest a half-dead caterpillar. Every now and then, she'd see ants hunting other bugs, circling around them and biting relentlessly with their forcep jaws. Sometimes, she'd rescue the victims, but often it was already too late. The caterpillar was a plain little creature, pale and maggoty with small black dots down its sides and a shiny brown head. It was overheated and tired, too far-gone to be saved, so instead of interfering she sat on the sun-warmed cobblestone and watched the poor thing struggle as its attackers piled onto it. Just as she was wondering if caterpillars could be afraid, and if ants_ knew _that caterpillars were afraid, she felt a hand on her shoulder._

 

“ _What are you looking at?” asked her father's voice. Viktor. She wasn't going to call him “papa” or “daddy” or any stupid names. He wasn't her family. His English was far clearer than Brion's, and his voice was deep and kingly. How terrible._

 

“ _Bugs fighting,” she said quietly, not looking up. “The white one is losing.”_

 

“ _You never know,” Viktor said. “Sometimes things change unexpectedly.”_

 

“ _Not here. Their venom is slowing it down.”_

 

“ _Why are you watching, then?”_

 

“ _I don't know,” she said, still not looking away. The caterpillar was so slow now that the ants were just ripping pieces of its flesh away without even bothering to finish killing it._

 

“ _Your mother didn't like bugs much,” Viktor said. “She always looked away whenever she saw a bee or a spider.”_

 

“ _She's not any of your business,” Tara said through clenched teeth (did ants know if caterpillars were afraid?) “You hardly knew her.” She took a deep breath. If her father insisted on talking to her, she should change the subject. “Those ants are female, but their gonads don't work.”_

 

“ _That's... nice,” Viktor said._

 

“ _It's not good or bad,” Tara said, finally turning her head. Her father was squatting behind her, watching the parade of soldiers. He looked uncomfortable. Good. “It just is.”_

 

“ _Little girls shouldn't talk so much about those things,” Viktor said, smiling nervously. “Why don't you play with your brothers?”_

 

“ _Brion is watching_ Cinderella, _but I don't understand the words. Gregor doesn't like me.”_

 

“ _He likes you.”  
_

“ _He wishes I wasn't here,” Tara said bluntly. “They didn't know about me until the last minute, right?”_

 

“ _It would have hurt them to know, and it wouldn't have helped you or your mother anyway.” There was a bit of shame cracking through that dignity. Tara wanted to chip away at it until he was just fleshy and weak like a caterpillar._

 

“ _Did your wife know?” Tara asked._

 

“ _It's really not good to spend all your time looking at dead things.”_

 

“ _They're all alive, right now. When did you tell her?”_

 

“ _Go play with Brion.” That was an order. Even if she wasn't going to acknowledge her father as actual family, he was still in charge of her._

 

_She stood up, and he stood up. The ants kept attacking. The caterpillar wasn't struggling anymore._

 

“ _I did love your mother,” Viktor said as she turned to leave. “Even if I only knew her briefly. I think she loved me, too.”_

 

_Tara looked over her shoulder, and her eyes felt hot like cobblestone. “She hated you,” she said in a voice that was shaking for no reason. “It was just me. I was the person she loved.”_

 

“ _There are different kinds of--”_

 

“ _Shut up,” Tara said. Viktor started to say something, but she interrupted him. “Shut up! I hate you, and I should! Don't act as if you don't hate me back, creep!”_

 

“ _Tara, you can't just--”_

 

_Tara was already running at that point, so she didn't hear the rest of the sentence. She didn't get in trouble.  
_

_Later that day, Brion asked if she wanted to learn to speak like he did. She shook her head. He smiled anyway._

 

_She hated him a little for that._

_\---_

“Do you...” Robin seems to be at a loss for words.

 

“Can't spend too much time around people,” Tara says. She's sitting at the edge of the island, on a jagged little outcropping over choppy waters and sharp rocks. So far, out of the places she's allowed to be here, this is her favorite. It's behind the Tower, where the big vents and boxes that come with large buildings are hidden. It's just ugly enough that nobody will come to bother her, most of the time.

 

“Raven's the same way,” Robin says. He sits down next to her. Ugh. “When too many people are talking at once, she gets overstimulated and needs to find somewhere dark.”

 

“Cockroach girl.”

 

“That's not very nice.”

 

“I'm a cockroach girl too, so it's fine.” Maybe not a cockroach. Maybe a bird-eating tarantula. Something that goes against the laws of nature, definitely.

 

“How are you settling in? Is your room okay?”

 

“It's fine.” Tara's room here is much more colorful and cutesy than the one at the compound. Apparently, the Tower is full of spare rooms in case guests stay over, so she just got one of those. It's cheerful and has leaves painted on the walls, a cute but empty bookshelf, and a twin bed with a wooden frame. It feels like a little kid's room. “It reminds me of the one in Markovia.”

 

“Can't be that fancy,” Robin says, smiling nervously. “You're a princess, basically, right?”

 

Tara snorts. “I'm what happens when condoms break.”

 

Robin laughs. His nervousness has escalated. Good. “Don't talk about yourself like that. You're a person.”

 

Tara blows a loud raspberry. “Loosen up a little, birdie. It was a joke.” Yes, a bird-eating tarantula suits her. He's obviously a bleeding-heart loser. She'll crush him.

 

“How's training been? Do you think you're getting better at controlling your powers?”

 

“I think so. I just need to be more precise,” she says. She smiles at him, sweetly. She's been in control for years now. What happened with the car wasn't an issue of carelessness. She just hadn't known what the rules were.

 

“You could always talk to Raven about that,” Robin says. “She's a natural when it comes to precision.”

 

“I don't think she likes me,” Tara says, remembering the Kubrick glare. “She keeps giving me this _look._ ”

 

“That's her default expression. She's actually sweet,” Robin says. “She really cares about people.”

 

“Ew.”

 

Robin laughs, genuinely this time. “Starfire and Wonder Girl are also good, if you're still nervous around Raven. I was kind of scared of her when I first met her, too.” He pauses. “Maybe it was because she just showed up suddenly in my house in a puff of smoke, though.”

 

“That'll do it,” Tara says, wondering what the story behind _that_ is. “Why are you only recommending the girls? Is there some kind of special boy's club going on behind the scenes here or something?”

 

Robin blushes. “No,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I was just thinking, because you might be more comfortable--”

 

Ah. He thinks she's shy about boys. Hell, maybe _he's_ shy. Might as well lean into it. She's bored.

 

“So, you're saying that I wouldn't like training with boys? Why not?” Tara tilts her head at him innocently. “I was always tomboyish as a kid. I liked to wrestle. I think I could do it now. Changeling's about my size, so that should be fair, right?”

 

“I'm-- uh,” Robin is still beet-red. Isn't he supposed to be practically an adult at this point? “I'm not sure if it's a great idea. I mean, even though I'm sure you're really strong, I-- He might not like that.”

 

“I am. How about I wrestle you, then? Tomorrow, during training?” She gives him her cutest, most innocent fake smile.

 

“Maybe try Starfire,” he says. There's a frantic note in his voice now. “But, wait, she's really strong, so--”

 

Tara scoots a little closer to him, maintains that bubbly innocence as best she can. “Are you scared of me, dude? I could pin you. My brothers were really rough-and-tumble, so I could probably take you down with just my legs--”

 

“Starfire wouldn't like that,” he says, and now he's obviously joking a little. Maybe he thinks she knows what she's talking about? Tara's just a little baby. She's never caused anybody to become sexually aroused. She doesn't even know what ovipores are for.

 

“Why not?” Tara asks.

 

“Let's talk training later,” Robin says. “I'm on dinner duty tonight.”

 

He stands up and walks away as swiftly as he can without actually running. Tara grins to herself.

 

Bird-eating spider. That's the game.

\---

“Terry's actually amazing,” Wonder Girl explains, presenting a worn photo of a man with a curly orange beard. “You’ll love him.” Tara nods and tries to look like she's not about to die of boredom. The only interesting thing about this situation is the size of the gem on that tacky engagement ring, and the gem is made of glass anyway.

 

“I'm sure he is,” Tara says. Can't do anything interesting with glass. Maybe sand. Has she ever done anything with sand? She's definitely played with sand _stone_ , and sand is mostly just ground up quartz, and that's silica so... Or, there's also calcium carbonate sand, right? That's biogenous. She's never worked with anything biogenous before. That would be, like, bones, wouldn't it? Wow, if she could manipulate bones she could just--

 

“I am glad that you find him handsome,” Starfire says, and her smile is real. She is truly happy that Wonder Girl is attracted to this hairy little man. “I have already brought you flowers,” she says, gesturing to a giant vase of mixed highway weeds. “I can get Raven, and we can all discuss this betrothal. On Tamaran, I remember that--”

 

“Is he rich?” Tara asks, realizing that she should be more involved in the discussion.

 

Wonder Girl shakes her head, but there's a dreamy look in her eyes. “He's not rich at all. He's just a professor. He teaches ancient history, and he's so _smart_ , and he tells the funniest jokes...”

 

“Ah! Tell me a Terry Joke!” Starfire says, bouncing a little on her feet. Her boobs bounce, too. Why is Tara staring at her boobs? It's a mystery.

 

“I can't think of any right now,” Wonder Girl says. “He can tell you when you meet him.”

 

“I cannot wait,” Starfire says, clasping her hands together and doing a little twirl. To be honest, Tara likes her a lot more than she wants to. From a distance, it was pretty easy to interpret Starfire as a goofy bimbo, but it turns out that she's just completely genuine about her feelings, and her feelings towards most things are very positive. She's still wearing a sparkly purple swimsuit, which doesn't do any good for her on the “respectability” scale, but Tara has to admit she's a little jealous of somebody who's able to be happy about so many things.

 

“How about you?” Wonder Girl asks. “Do you want to come with Starfire and me to meet him?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Tara. Tara Markov.” Wonder Girl taps her on the head lightly. “Starfire’s coming with me to meet my fiancé. Do you want to come? He'll probably buy us snacks.”

 

Tara perks up at the mention of snacks, but she’s still suspicious. There’s something she doesn’t like about this photo. Maybe it’s the lipstick marks. “Has he ever been arrested for anything?” she asks, even though she knows it doesn’t matter. She’s never been arrested for anything, and she’s killed people.

 

“…No?” Wonder Girl says. “He’s great. He’s kept my identity a secret, and I think that’s a pretty big deal. Do you want to go, or do you not?”

 

What. How come this guy gets a Titan’s identity and Tara doesn’t? That’s totally unfair!

 

“I’ll go,” Tara says. “Just as a note, what _is_ your actual name?”

 

Wonder Girl, who has already tucked away her photo into her purse, looks over her shoulder at Tara. “I thought I already told you,” she says. “I’m Donna Troy. Nineteen years old, freelance photographer.” She pauses for a second, and then adds, “Starfire’s name is Koriand’r, we call her Kory, and she’s from space.” Starfire nods for emphasis.

 

“I know the second part,” Tara says. “Nice to meet you, Donna.” She holds out a hand, and Donna shakes it, but her expression is quizzical.

 

“You’ve already met me,” Donna says.

 

“Whatever.”

\---

The three of them meet up with Terry in a diner near the library. It’s the same one Tara met the Sweat Client in. They even sit in the same booth, and for some reason, that makes Tara’s stomach turn a little. The waitress is different, and probably doesn’t recognize her anyway, since she’s got her hair cut all wholesome and she’s not silently following a scary middle-aged man.

 

She’s trying to make conversation with a non-scary, horrible middle-aged man, and it’s going terribly.

 

Donna and Terry are on one side of the booth, all snuggled up like a pair of disgusting baby chicks. Tara is sitting next to Kory, who is beaming and a lot warmer than a person should be. Maybe it’s an alien physiology thing. Tara doesn’t know where that smothering sensation is coming from. Is it because she’s sitting next to a smiling furnace with giant hair? Is it because she’s embarrassed by the presence of a disgustingly close couple? Is it because she met somebody while sitting in this exact seat and helped plan a man’s murder?

 

Who knows?

 

“So, Tara, what’s your favorite subject in school?” Terry asks, smiling.

 

“I don’t go to school,” Tara says. She does her best not to glower.

 

“We’re going to set her up with Gar’s home tutor,” Donna says. “She’s really good.”

 

“Well, what did you like when you were in school?” Terry asks.

 

In school. Does that mean in Markovia, where she shared Pyotr with Brion? Because Tara hasn’t been in any actual classes since third grade. And she hadn’t really attended much of third grade, either. She’ll just make something up. Yeah. That usually works.

 

“Geosciences,” Tara says. “I like rocks.”

 

“Ah,” Terry says. He looks a little disappointed. Maybe he’d been hoping she would say something he was good at. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Kory,” he says, and he’s smiling again like an idiot. “How’s life been for you?”

 

Kory jumps a little. She must have been either super-focused on something or totally spaced out. “I have been modeling for Donna,” she says. “The fashions and the swimsuits.”

 

“She’s tall and has great posture,” Donna explains. “Also, she’s just really pretty.”

 

“I’d like to see those photos,” Terry says, and Tara isn’t sure whether he’s being polite or creepy.

 

“Well, you'll see them pretty soon,” Donna says proudly. “She's the new Golden Jeans girl. I got a full photoshoot with her, and it's going to appear in next month's catalog.”

 

“You're really climbing ladders,” Terry says, still smiling. “Makes me feel a little inadequate.”

 

“Oh, don't say that,” Donna says, kissing him on the cheek. “You could be a Golden Jeans girl if you wanted to.”

 

Terry laughs, and Tara suppresses a chuckle. That one was actually pretty good. Kory just nods in agreement, and then returns to her previous spaced-out state.

 

“You're a professor, right?” Tara asks.

 

“PhD,” Terry says, nodding.

 

“I know you teach history. What level?” Tara's making conversation. Look at her go. Wow.

 

“College,” Terry says. He hasn't stopped smiling. Something clicks in Tara's head.

 

“Wait, Donna's nineteen, right?” Tara asks, looking from Donna to Terry and back again. “That's college-age. And you teach at a college.”

 

“...Yes,” Terry says.

 

“Were you, like, her teacher or something?”

 

They both shake their heads hard. Donna's hair flops around awkwardly.

 

“That would be really weird,” Donna says, blushing a little.

 

“An ethical breach,” Terry says.

 

“It would cause a weird power imbalance,” Donna says.

 

“He's still way older than you, though,” Tara says. “And you're the same age as his students. Is that okay?” She's pretty sure it's okay. Or, maybe it's okay for certain demographics. She doesn't want to think about this too hard, so why is she asking questions?

 

“Age is just a number, Tara,” Donna says, rolling her eyes a little. She doesn't look too annoyed, though.

 

“Donna could beat me up if she wanted to,” Terry says decisively. “That nullifies any power imbalances.”

 

“You know I'd never hit you,” Donna says, halfway between offended and amused.

 

“My sisters smacked me around,” Terry says. “But with you, it's kinky.”

 

Donna laughs. Tara gags. Kory just looks confused.

\---

Teacher-student romance happens in a lot of paperback novels. Tara doesn't really bother to read any of them, but the summaries on the back covers tell her enough. The heroines are blushing schoolgirls with dirty minds, and the heroes are unsuspecting intellectuals fighting their animal instincts.

 

Why make a big deal of it, when you already know what direction you're headed in?

\---

“I don't like Terry,” Tara announces the next time she meets up with Slade. “He grosses me out.”

 

“At least try to tolerate him,” Slade says. He's not looking at her, because he's focused on one of his side contracts. He has a chart and everything. They're meeting up in a cave today, but he still went and brought that chart. She's a little jealous. She's more interesting than paper, isn't she? “Don't cause any drama.”

 

“I know, I know.” Tara wonders if she's a blushing schoolgirl with a dirty mind. The “school” part isn't really there, but she figures she fits the rest of the profile fine. “Let's see, what else did I find out this week... Cyborg's mostly watertight, but if he doesn't secure the plate over his stomach, it makes some of his important wires vulnerable. I forget what he uses to keep it in place. He has, like, screws, but also... grout, maybe.”

 

“Good to know.”

 

“Kid Flash isn't feeling well. Missions have been wearing him down, and he's been spending a lot of time sleeping. I think he might be depressed.” What else is there? She's been doing her best to remember important things, but she's kind of stupid. “I think Changeling has a crush on me. I'm trying to ward him off, but he keeps on trying to get me to spend time alone with him.”

 

“String him along a little. He'll trust you more.” Slade pauses. “How about Raven?”

 

“Raven hates me,” she says. “No matter what I do, she won't stop glaring at me.”

 

“You've read her file, right?” Slade hands her a cigarette. She tries not to look excited. It would be childish.

 

“They say she's part demon. Is that a real thing?” She fumbles through the pocket of her jacket. She knows she has a match in there somewhere…

 

“It seems so. You've seen her powers?”

 

Finally. The match. Tara lights her cigarette. “She can move furniture. Big fucking deal.”

 

“You haven't, then.”

 

Tara cocks her head and tries to remember what was on the computer. “I read telekinesis. And empathy, I think. Is _that_ a real thing?”

 

“It means that she's good at spotting liars.”

 

“Well, isn't that-- oh.” Tara sucks in a lungful of smoke. That sounds problematic. As in, lose-your-job-and-die problematic. “What if she's on to me?”

 

“Has she said anything?”

 

Tara thinks about that stupid speech Raven gave her. What did she say? It was really melodramatic and flowery, like a bad poem. “'I have always sensed _corruptness_ in you,'” she says. “'I do not know what to think. At times my father's evil _overwhelms_ me and my empathetic powers become _useless_. Now please leave, lest I _unleash_ an evil far greater than any I sense in you...' or something like that.”

 

Slade stiffens. Tara stiffens, in response. This can’t be good. “Do you know if she's told anyone else about this?” he asks.

 

“Said she didn't. Still ruined my damn evening, though. I mean, words can hurt, even if they are kinda true.” Tara grins, hoping that she doesn’t look like a liar. Raven knows she’s a liar. Crap, crap, crap... “When we get 'em, I'm want her for myself, okay?” She’ll get Raven herself. She’ll get Raven first, maybe, before she can tell anyone.

 

“Be careful around her,” Slade warns. “If she doubts herself, then you have something to grab on to.”

 

“You want me to just lie harder? 'Cause I'm doing my best.”

 

“Gaslight her a little. Act friendlier, more childlike, anything to make her second-guess herself more.”

 

“I'll scramble her brains up like an egg,” Tara says confidently. Tara is going to get Raven. Raven can’t possibly be any stronger than she is, right? Right?

 

Okay, the plan. She'll have a nice, emotional talk with Raven about how sad everything is, and maybe Tara will pretend to be sad too, and they can bond over that. She’ll get Raven to trust her, so that when she makes her move, she’ll be off-guard. She'll flirt lightly with Gar, and she'll figure out whether Cyborg uses plumbing supplies to keep himself alive. Good plan. Maybe she'll watch one of Kory's shows with her, after that. One of the ones with all the kissing and the crying and the thematic background music..

 

She gives Slade his kiss, and this time he doesn't try to make a point or anything. It's actually a relief. Tara knows that she should enjoy that kind of intense stuff, but she doesn't. She doesn't like spending so much time using concealer to cover up love bites, and he has a tendency to grab onto her so hard that it hurts. She figures that she's just not tough enough yet.

 

She enjoys the extra attention, and she likes the feeling of being close to someone, as long as she trusts them (and Slade is probably the only person she's actually trusted, besides her mother, and maybe Brion). She usually doesn't mind lap-sitting or minor spooning, but sometimes, he gets... Well, it happened in the motel, and it just seems to be what happens when there's too much body-to-body contact between them. It's embarrassing, but he's not embarrassed. Instead, more often than not, he just holds her more tightly, and ignores any attempts she makes to get away. She knows what it means, and it's terrifying.

 

Every time she's not able to defuse a situation, she's a step closer to having sex with Slade. He's being nice to her right now, giving her time to get used to the idea (even though neither of them has spoken about it out loud). But she knows he wants to. It's a normal part of a relationship, and theirs isn't that strange; the way they met was strange, and their line of work is strange, but it's not strange that sometimes his breathing becomes heavy and he rubs up against her and gropes at the front of her jeans and she curls her legs up so he can't, and he becomes irritable and leaves for the bathroom.

 

Soon, dangerously soon, she's going to have sex with someone. She'll be someone's _lover_ , in the adult sense. She knows the mechanics of the process pretty well. She knows that people enjoy it, a lot, and that's probably why Slade is so eager. He's a grown-up, and he's probably done it a bunch of times. But she hasn't, and she's definitely going to do it wrong. There are probably instruction manuals for it somewhere, but she can't just walk into the library and try to find the sex textbooks. And even though she's gotten bigger since she first arrived, Slade is still so much taller and broader than she is, and at least twice her weight. She's going to get squished. It would be like a... like a New World ghost moth trying to mate with an Old World ghost moth. Or a cow and a goat, maybe.

 

Tara's specialty is ruminating, and ruminating is a stupid thing to do when you've got a contract to finish and a very large, kind of scary future sexual partner to handle. All she can do right now is get into the Titans' heads, and out of her own.

\---

“What the hell?” Tara asks. “This is private property, carrot-top.”

 

“Cool it,” the boy says. “It’s me, Kid Flash. Anyway, the tops of carrots are green, so that doesn't even make sense.”

 

“Why aren’t you in your uniform? We have a meeting in like ten minutes.” Tara crosses her arms. Kid Flash just glares at her. What did she ever do to him? What a douche.

 

They all gather together in the main ops. Gar looks bored. He hates official meetings, but Tara actually likes them. They’re a quick summary of everything that’s going on, and if she’s fast, she can usually run up to her room and write down what she remembers, and then bring it back to Slade the next time they meet up. He loves it when she does that. He always pets her head and tells her how good she is, and she gets to bask in validation for a few minutes.

 

Robin stands up, and Kid Flash stands up with him. Everybody’s eyes are on Kid Flash. They’ve all probably already seen him out of uniform, but for a meeting, it feels topsy-turvy.

 

“So, I’m guessing you guys know something’s up,” Kid Flash says, smiling nervously. “I’ve, uh, got an announcement to make. Robin, too. We’ve been talking about this for a while, and we’ve decided this is the right time. It’s, um…” He looks at Robin, and Robin nods. “I’m retiring.”

 

Donna gasps, but everyone else stays dead silent. Tara looks at Raven. Her face is tight and pale, as though she’s nauseated.

 

“I’m going back to just being Wally West, instead of being more than one person at a time. I can’t handle it. I might rejoin the hero community in a couple of years,” Kid Flash-- no, _Wally_ , continues. “But right now, I need to focus on school. I need to get into a good college, and I can’t balance studying with a job like this.” I’m… I’m gonna turn in my communicator. I’ve already given my ring to the Flash for safe-keeping. Please take care of my other… my other artifacts, okay? He’s smiling, but he looks like he’s about to cry. He sits down next to Donna, who leans over and hugs him tightly. Tara can see tears shining in her eyes, and she can hear Wally sniffling quietly into her shoulder.

 

“Ex- excuse me,” Robin says. “I’m sorry, but I’ve also got an announcement to make. I’m also putting away Robin.”

 

Donna, who had been holding Wally, stands and scrubs the tears out of her eyes with her forearm. “You’re not,” she says decisively. You can’t do that.” Behind the sadness, there’s a bit of quivering anger. “You’re my best friend, and if Wally leaves, we’ll be the only original Titans left. I’m not ready to-- “

 

“Robin, please!” Starfire says, joining Donna and clasping her hands against her chest. “It will… not be the same without you.” She squeezes her eyes shut, hugs herself and shakes her head. She’s crying too, now. Is everybody going to start crying? “The Titans need Robin. _I_ need--”

 

“I’m not quitting being a Titan,” Robin says. “I’m just not going to be using a mantle anymore.”

 

Kory sighs in relief and plops down next to Tara, apparently emotionally drained by the experience. Donna keeps standing, her arms crossed. She’s clearly unsatisfied.

 

“You’re kidding,” Gar says flatly. “You’re just going to be going around punching people as-- as--" He looks at Tara nervously.

 

Robin takes off his mask. Underneath it is a shockingly normal, if very pretty, boy. Tara should have noticed before. The mask hardly covered any of his face, so why does it look so _wrong_ when he’s not wearing it? His eyes are a bright, deep blue, and his eyelashes are as long as a girl’s. Does Slade know about this? Does Slade know that Robin is a human boy with human eyes? He should. Of course he should. _She_ knew Robin was a normal human under the uniform, so why…?

 

“Robin was a kid, and he was Batman’s partner,” Robin _(who?)_ says sternly. “I’m not, anymore. From now on, until I find a new name and a new identity, I’m just going to be Dick.”

 

Dick? Who the fuck is named Dick anymore? Tara looks down, covers her mouth and nose. This would be the worst time to laugh. It would be the absolute worst time to laugh.

 

Then he starts taking off his clothes. Everybody sits silently, teary-eyed, like they’re at a funeral, as Robin, who is named Dick, drops his cape to the floor and starts unbuckling his damn belt right in the middle of the main ops, where they watch TV and nap on the couch. Tara leans over, tries to hold it in. She’s shaking. She’s going to explode.

 

Is he an exhibitionist? He’d seemed so squeaky-clean, but… Whoop. There goes the vest. It’s on the floor too. Tara dissolves into giggles. She winds up falling against Kory, who’s soft and warm. She looks up at her, and Kory looks down at her, and Tara presses her lips together to hide how amused she is, and Kory smiles a little, and Tara… _Winks_ at her. Like an idiot.

 

“He’s getting naked,” she whispers shakily, looking back at Dick, who is taking off his shoes.

 

Donna turns and puts her hands on her hips. “Tara, he’s not taking off his clothes, he’s taking off his identity. Please be serious.”

 

“He’s literally taking off his clothes,” Tara whispers, and buries her face in Kory’s puffy hair. “He’s just doing it.”

 

Kory just nods.

 

Apparently, the leotard is where it stops. Dick carefully folds up all of his outer garments and puts them on the coffee table. Tara manages to stop giggling, but Donna is still looking at her accusingly. Wally rubs the back of his head. Gar coughs. The room is stifling.

 

“Maybe for the next costume, try longer pants,” Cyborg says, breaking the silence.

 

Dick lets out a bark of laughter, and then looks surprised at himself. “I don't know,” he says. “I think Kory likes these ones.”

 

Suddenly, the atmosphere is normal again. Everybody's hugging, and a little teary, but Wally promises he'll keep visiting. Gar says that maybe he should try stripping down to see if that will make him more popular, and Dick punches him good-naturedly. Raven, though... Raven is lurking on the periphery, apparently lost in thought. This is as good a time as any to try and bond with her, right?

 

Tara inconspicuously escapes the affectionate Titan-pile, and steps up to Raven. “Hey,” she says quietly, so as not to alert the others. “Do you think that since he's not Robin anymore, I can be Robin?”

 

“No,” Raven says, meeting her eye. She's deadly serious, and there's an offended edge to her voice. Whoops.

 

“It was a joke,” Tara says quickly. “Because. Um. If I was Robin, I could give anyone orders.”

 

“Oh,” Raven says. Her expression doesn't change in the slightest. “Funny.”

 

Tara gets the distinct impression that Raven does not think she's funny.

 

“Anyway,” Gar says, “It's not as if the team is shrinking. Right, Tara?”

 

“Huh?” she turns to look at him. He's broken out of the huddle.

 

“Just because Wally's not Kid Flash anymore doesn't mean he's not one of us,” Gar explains. “And now we've got you with us, too, right?”

 

“Uh, right,” Tara says. She feels something squirming in her stomach. Where'd that come from? Gar grabs her hand, she tells him he's gross, and he pulls her into the huddle.

 

“I'm not any kind of replacement, or anything,” Tara says. “You can't just use me joining as an excuse to walk off and--”

 

“Don't worry,” he says. “We're all happy you joined.” He lowers his voice slightly, and adds, “Keep an eye on them when you're out on the field, okay? I trust you'll be able to keep them from doing anything dumb.” Tara's about to say something snarky in response, but then Dick kisses her on the cheek and draws back, smiling, and grabs Kory's hand and starts talking to her animatedly about something stupid.

 

She's at a loss for words. What the hell was that? She starts stuttering and blushing, which really isn't her style, she's usually much smoother, especially considering that this is just some nerd who doesn't even kiss on the mouth like an adult, so--

 

“Don't act all sweet and sappy,” Tara says. “You're gonna give me diabetes.”

 

Nobody seems to notice except for Gar, who laughs and puts his hand on her shoulder. Ew.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question! When I was working on the last story, I was hypomanic, so I was able to post a lot of beefy chapters in very close succession. Now, I'm doing more things than just typing (ie eating, sleeping, sometimes) so I can't do that quite as much. It's snowing now and I need to shower and eat something probably before I go to my Human Sexuality class (which isn't code for having a secret lover, last class was about evopsych interpretations of mate preference and i g a g g e d bc it is very unromantic and a li'l sexist and despite loving both psych and evolutionary biology, evopsych is not this swamp beast's cup of po cha.)
> 
> So, which do you prefer? Long chapters with a long wait, or shorter chapters with a shorter wait? I'll change my posting schedule accordingly.
> 
> **UP NEXT:**  
>  An inevitable but jarring incident leads to an unexpected, not entirely unpleasant encounter. Several people do exercise. Someone spends some time at the library, and learns a little bit about the history of psychology.


	4. Fairy Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tara tries on a new accessory, and gets a little more familiar with Raven. Some Bad Shit happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a l'il shorter but don't worry there's more on the way. Because this chapter is shorter, some people do not get to exercise and nobody goes to the library. There will be high levels of both exercise and library in the next chapter.
> 
> **OKAY** people, I've got another question to ask. Should I switch from "chose not to use archive warnings" to specific tags? Because that kind of shit goes down here. I've tagged other works in this series (primarily Fucko POV), but Raven's story stayed vague-warning'd.
> 
> I realize that this story might actually be my most graphic, but I try to keep sexual stuff tasteful by focusing more on thought processes and specific emotions instead of physical things, but I realize that that might be pretty upsetting to some people as well.
> 
> Anyway, specific **Trigger Warnings for this Chapter:** There's a sex scene between an adult and a minor, and the consent is dubious at best. I don't believe it's overly graphic. Please tell me if it seems distasteful or fetishistic to you (as in depiction, not concept! The concept is pretty distasteful on its own!). A character approaches mental illness in a very ableist way, but mostly because he doesn't understand it.

 

Raven. Raven is so quiet that Tara can't get any kind of read on her. She doesn't see anything demonic about her. She doesn't seem like the fire-and-pitchforks type. Maybe a ghost, if anything. Raven is all light and shadows, like a sheer curtain by the window at night.

 

Raven likes to meditate. Maybe it's because she's bad at sleeping. Tara's the same way, except instead of meditating, she just wanders. So, naturally, sometimes at night when Tara is wandering, she'll encounter Raven meditating. Sometimes she'll be sitting cross-legged on the floor, and sometimes she'll be on a single couch cushion pulled into a corner. Sometimes she hovers, which is always unsettling. Tara isn't sure she's ever going to get used to that.

 

When Raven is meditating, she's totally spaced out. Tara has tried waving a hand in front of her face, placing small objects on top of her head (a rubber duck, a snowglobe, a Central City souvenir shotglass), and even blowing on her ear. None of these things seem to work. So far, the only thing that seems to get Raven out of meditation mode is flat-out screaming.

 

Raven doesn't like that. All things considered, Tara probably should have taken the snowglobe off her head before yelling. It turns out that hovering, glass objects, and being startled are not a good combination. Raven loses her focus and crashes to the ground. The snowglobe shatters, covering her in bits of broken glass and glitter-water.

 

Raven looks at the puddle, her own lap, the remains of the snowglobe, and then at Tara. “What are you doing?” she asks flatly.

 

“Science,” Tara says, because that's the first word that comes to mind.

 

“That's not science,” Raven says. Her eyebrows are furrowed. “Why did you put a snowglobe on my head?”

 

Tara feels her face heating up. “You always seem so focused,” she says, trying to put it as nicely as possible. “I wanted to see how much you could ignore.”

 

“It's more than just ignoring things,” Raven says, shifting uncomfortably in the glitter puddle. “When I meditate, sometimes my soul is somewhere else.”

 

“Weird,” Tara says. That sounds like bullshit, but who is she to judge? “So, like, you're dead and you've just got your ghost wandering around somewhere?”

 

“No,” Raven says. “It's not like that at all. Please don't try to startle me when I'm meditating. Getting pulled back into my body suddenly is... uncomfortable.”

 

“I'd imagine,” Tara says. “What do you do, when you're just floating around out there?”

 

“A lot of things,” Raven says. She doesn't elaborate. She's looking at Tara suspiciously. She's still covered in glitter and bits of broken glass.

 

“You should probably, uh, do something about the glass,” Tara says. “You'll cut yourself.”

 

“Please leave,” Raven says. “I was busy.”

 

Tara leaves, and she actually does feel kind of bad. She wonders if that's how she's supposed to feel about the situation. If Raven is her enemy, then she should be proud that she caused trouble for her, right? Instead, she just feels like she kicked a duck or something.

 

Tara imagines kicking Raven into a duck pond, and it's a little funny, but it's not as funny as it should be.

**\---**

“It's mostly kind of boring,” Tara says one day. “They're just... immature, you know?” Slade gave her the code to his room, which she's pretty proud of. Admittedly, his room is as small and cramped as hers, but it has a lot more going on. He has a desk, even though he also has a desk in his office. He's got a couch, which she is allowed to sit on, and a full-sized bed, which she is expressly _not_ allowed to sit on. He also has a display case on the wall, filled with military badges and awards. It makes sense, she figures. He's always had kind of a military air about him.

 

“It doesn't matter if you're bored,” Slade says, not looking up from the computer monitor on his desk. “You need to pay attention to what they're doing. They're smarter than they act.”

 

“I know, I know,” Tara says, sprawling out on the couch. “But most of them are older than me, and they still act like a bunch of babies. Yesterday, Dick got all wound up because Raven implied that the _Gray Ghost_ was a kids' show. He was all, 'it's for multiple demographics!' and she was all 'it airs during the after-school time-slot!'” Tara pauses for a second. “Raven never gets wound up when she argues. I mean, it was silly, but Dick got really emotional and she just stayed all flat-faced.”

 

“Dick's an emotional person.”

 

“Yeah, I guess...” Tara stares at a water stain on the ceiling. “Wait, how do you know that? You don't spend any down time with him.”

 

“I have something for you,” Slade says, turning his chair around. He doesn't answer her question. Annoying.

 

Tara perks up anyway, because she's always up for free stuff. “Is it fun, or is it a work thing?” she asks.

 

“Come and look.”

 

Tara comes and looks. It's a small, open cardboard box with a few different shipping labels on it. It takes her a second to realize what she's looking at. “It's contact lenses,” she says. “Why?”

 

“It's more than that,” he says, and he actually sounds a little excited. “Try them on.”

 

“My eyes are fine,” she says, but she still pops them in. She's never been bad with touching her eyes. She used to do it all the time to freak Brion out. She has to blink a few times before they're comfortable. Nothing seems particularly odd. Everything looks the same. “I don't get what the big deal is,” she says.

 

“Look at the monitor.”

 

She looks at the monitor and... it's the monitor. The monitor is on the monitor's screen. She closes one eye, and the perspective changes slightly. “Whoah,” she says. “That's actually kind of awesome.”

 

“This way, you can record interactions with the Titans directly, instead of having to work from memory,” Slade explains. “This should make things a lot easier for you.”

 

“How do they work?”

 

“They work for about eight hours at a time, and recharge when you put them back in their case. They record both sound and video, and I've got them linked up to the computer system on the compound. Once you take them out, they turn off.”

 

“You could get super-rich selling these things.”

 

“The cost to have them manufactured is too high, and I didn't make them.”

 

Tara removes the contacts, and has to blink again, because now her eyes feel weird. Maybe it's the electricity. “Was it that stuttery guy who fixes your guns?”

 

“Overseas manufacturer.” Slade smiles. “What do you think?”

 

“I think that once you see how they act at home, you'll realize what I'm talking about,” Tara says. “I think Raven might actually be a robot.”

 

“Raven is emotionally restrained. That's what keeps her going,” Slade says.

 

“How long have you had this... feud, with the Titans?” Tara asks. “I hardly heard about them until you wanted me to join. Even when they met Brion.”

 

“Almost four years, now. I told you. I didn't kill them then, and it wound up getting dramatic.” Slade seems to be in a pretty good mood today. Maybe it's the contacts. He always appreciates new gadgets.

 

“Sounds like there's more to the story than that,” Tara says, testing the waters. “You mentioned somebody else dying.”

 

“Did I?” he turns his chair around and returns to working on his computer.

 

“Yeah. And poor life decisions.”

 

“It was a long time ago,” he says. He obviously wants the conversation to be over now, but she's curious, so she pushes just a little harder.

 

“Four years isn't _that_ long,” she says. “Dick would have been fifteen or sixteen back then, right? And Gar would have been, like, a baby. Who wanted them dead?”

 

“If you had permission to ask questions, I would have told you so,” Slade says. Any trace of a good mood has disappeared from his voice. “Go do target practice until two, and then go back to the Tower.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she says, and quickly scampers off.

 

Her old training target has been replaced. Penis-Clown had character. This one is just a blank white person shape, without a face or anything. For some reason, this pisses her off.

\---

_Dr. Jace gave Tara and Brion a talk. Brion had already gotten parts of it. He was mostly just there for the ceremony of it, since the talk was in English and even though Brion was getting better, it wasn't his first language._

 

“ _Tara,” Dr. Jace said. “Do you understand the implications of this?”_

 

“ _You want to do experiments on me for politics,” Tara said. It had been six months since her arrival in Markovia, and while she'd gotten familiar with the local names and faces (and even begrudgingly learned a few words, like “bathroom” and “dinner”) it still wasn't home. They'd told Tara on the first day why she was there, and she wasn't as enthusiastic about the idea of experimental medical procedures as Brion was._

 

“ _Once they're done, you'll have amazing powers,” Dr. Jace said. “They'll be a huge responsibility.”_

 

_Taking care of her mother was a responsibility. This just sounded like a waste of time and energy._

 

“ _You understand what a great service you're doing for your country,” Dr. Jace said._

 

_Tara wanted to say that it wasn't her country, but these were the people giving her food, and also Brion was in the room and she didn't want to make him cry. It was really easy to make Brion cry._

 

“ _We've only got the resources to give one person these abilities at a time, and we've decided you'll go first,” Dr. Jace continued. Tara suspected why. She was expendable._

 

“ _Lucky!” Brion whined. Tara punched him on the arm. He just grinned at her. He was missing two baby teeth at the moment. He looked so stupid, but she couldn't help but smile at him._

 

“ _You'll get your turn,” she said. “Anyway, the second time'll probably be safer anyway. They'll have practiced, right?”_

 

“ _Oh,” Brion said, and his eyebrows furrowed a little. “It will be safe the first time as well, right?”_

 

“ _Pfft, yeah,” Tara said. “Duh. But the second time will be better.”_

 

“ _Better,” Brion said. He still looked a little worried._

 

_Tara figured that maybe worrying was part of his job as an emergency asset, but she still felt kind of bad._

 

_It was weird, caring about someone again._

_\---_

“You're jealous of Terry, right?” Tara asks one sunny afternoon. She's sprawled out across a couch in the main ops, intentionally taking up as much space as possible. Dick nearly spits out his cranberry juice.

 

“What do you mean by that!?” Dick spins around to face her. His mug of juice (World's 2nd Best Uncle!) swishes dramatically, but none of it gets on the carpet. Tara wonders if that's a learned skill.

 

“You're really attached to Donna,” Tara says, sitting up and stretching. “And now she's macking all over this old weirdo, and you don't get any attention anymore.”

 

“Is Donna jealous of Kory?” Dick asks. “Nope,” he answers, without giving Tara a chance to say anything. “Nope, they get on great.”

 

“You seem pretty defensive, Dickie,” Tara smirks. “It's fine, I don't like Terry either.”

 

“I love Terry,” Dick says. “I love Terry like he's family.” He shudders on the last few syllables. “Anyway, Donna and I are going to the movies tonight, so it's not like we don't spend time together anymore.”

 

“So, Terry's not tagging along to make sure you don't seduce her?”

 

“I'm not going to seduce Donna,” Dick says, rolling his eyes. He settles on the floor and puts his mug on the coffee table. “We're going to go see an adaptation of a book she likes, and Terry's not coming. Kory's busy, too, so it's just going to be us. No dates, just friendship. A lot of friendship.”

 

“Sure,” Tara says, eyeing the mug. “Whose uncle are you?”

 

“When my friend won his custody battle with the League of Shadows, we had a ceramics party to celebrate,” Dick says. “Aqualad won 'Best Uncle' when we played rock-paper-scissors, so I had to settle. Um, Donna's '3rd Best,' so I did a little better than her.”

 

That combination of words makes very little sense, but Tara nods anyway.

 

One-by-one, all of the other Titans leave. Apparently, Cyborg is visiting his grandparents, who he hates. Kory actually _did_ want to go to the movie (Dick and Donna are her two favorite people, after all), so Gar got all dressed up and is taking her out to make her feel better. He looks kind of ridiculous in his frilly suit, but Tara has to admit that it's a nice sentiment.

 

“Sorry, Tara,” he says. “I guess this means we can't get married.”

 

“I'm going to punch you in the balls.” Tara pauses for a second and amends her statement. “I'm going to punch you in the balls until you are dead.”

 

“Kory! Come help me with my tie!” Gar says as he prances off. Tara can detect just a little anxiety in his voice. Victory.

 

Kory can't tie a tie, but she can tie a bow. Gar looks like an ugly teddy bear. He seems kind of proud of it.

 

The hours pass. One-by-one, the Titans set off to go on their own weird little adventures. Tara winds up sitting alone in the kitchenette, weighing the costs and benefits of making scrambled eggs. Benefit: she's hungry, and scrambled eggs would make her not-hungry. Cost: she really doesn't feel like moving.

 

It's getting dark outside, and Tara wants company. It's Sunday. She usually doesn't visit the compound on Sunday, but today she's alone, and she knows Slade doesn't have any other projects going on that would send him out of town, so she decides she might as well come in and report on her discoveries. Admittedly, most of those discoveries are pretty lame (Kory doesn't know how ties work, Dick is essentially a clingy five-year-old, somebody sued the League of Shadows for child custody), but it's better than talking to a refrigerator.

 

She's noticed that it's a lot less obvious and destructive if she pulls her rocks and globs of dirt from underwater, instead of directly from the ground. Sometimes it's kind of rough, because the good ones tend to be buried under sand (unless there's been a storm recently, in which case the rules change and pretty much all the rocks are up for grabs). The only problem with this method is that she doesn't like sitting on wet rocks.

 

She's sat on some pretty gross stuff in her day, so it's not that bad.

 

Either way, if she's able to ride high and cut across the city, it's not a long trip to get to the compound. It's in the industrial district, and on the outside, it looks pretty run down. Tara's familiar enough with it that she knows all the different ways to get in (there are actually only two ways: through a vent in the big dusty kitchen on the main floor, and through the heavily locked, concealed main entrance).

 

She comes in through the main entrance, because she wants to be noticed. She's coming for attention, so she might as well be forthright about it. Luckily for her, Slade is already in the main room. He's practicing with the targets, and guns are kind of loud, so she has to wait until he pauses to bother him.

 

“Hey!” she says, running up to him as soon as he puts his gun down. “Guess who's playing hooky!”

 

“You, I assume,” Slade says, taking off his protective visor. He never wears one on the field, so why when he's practicing?

 

“Me,” Tara says, nodding. “Everybody's off doing their own shit, so I figured I should go do my shit. You've been watching through the lenses, right? How are they working?”

 

“You keep on forgetting to take them out,” Slade says. “They run out of power when you do that.”

 

“Oh.” Tara realizes that she's still wearing them. “Did you see when I told Gar I'd punch him in the balls until he died?”

 

“No, they've been out of power all day. Also, don't tell him that. You're trying to get them to _trust_ you, remember?”

 

“It's easier if they think I'm prickly,” Tara says. “That way, I don't have to change the way I talk as much. I'm just letting them assume that I'm good, and that's how I'm gonna get 'em.” Tara stretches luxuriously, to show how casual she is about getting people.

 

Slade shakes his head. “You have to put in actual effort if you want this to work. They aren't that stupid.”

 

Tara hums a little. “They've been acting like they're stupid. I can give you a summary of what you missed.”

 

She pulls her case from her pocket and carefully puts her camera lenses away. “Okay. So, Donna took Dick to the movies because he's feeling needy. I think the engagement's thrown him off.”

 

Slade doesn't seem to be paying much attention, but Tara's just in the mood to run her mouth today. She's tired, and she can't exactly complain about the Titans to the Titans. They get annoyed at each other, but they're all snuggled up like a bunch of damn kittens ninety percent of the time, so it's really... Anyway, Tara runs her mouth.

 

Apparently, she's not supposed to be running her mouth, because he fucking pushes her over. She bumps the back of her head on the concrete, and it doesn't hurt that bad, but it's disorienting.

 

Before she's even able to ask what the deal is, he's on top of her, and he's kissing her more aggressively than he ever has before (and Slade's a pretty hardcore kisser; he treats it like some kind of angry contact sport), and she has a suspicion as to what's about to happen. She wishes he'd given her a warning (even ghost moths signal).

 

Why _now?_ She wasn't saying anything interesting. Does talking about needy dorks turn Slade on? He bites her lip and she winces a little. Maybe she should do more biting. She should probably do more of that fighting-type stuff. She should probably-- okay, he's done kissing for now. She can breathe. What's the battle plan here? Is she supposed to be doing something different, or is this okay? Is this okay?

 

Now his hand's under her shirt. If she'd known this was how she'd be spending her evening, she would have worn a bra or something, to at least give the impression of adulthood. Slade's hands roam around, tracing her ribs and the bottoms of her breasts as if mapping them out. It... tickles, kind of, but all she can really do is squirm nervously like a dying caterpillar ( _do ants know if caterpillars are...?_ ). She looks up at him, and his expression is of intense focus. What's he thinking, at this moment? What matters so much about the cartography of her torso?

 

Without even considering the consequences, she lets him pull off her _Duck Dude’s Party Band_ t-shirt (why is she even wearing that? Did the shirt give him an idea? Is _Duck Dude’s Party Band_ sexually provocative?). She even moves her arms to make it easier for him. Why does she have to be like this? She can't pull herself out of the moment. This was basically her own idea, anyway. So each visceral element, the smell of sweat and the taste of her bleeding lip and the feeling of human breath, all those things are meant to be recorded in her memory. How come he's tugging at her clothes without taking off any of his? It doesn't seem fair.

 

“Are you sure?” she asks. She doesn't make eye contact, because he always knows when she's frightened. The concrete is abrasive when she's lying on it. It was made for construction boots, not human skin.

 

He doesn't say anything. He just kisses her neck, as if that's an answer. That move always does get her, though. He knows how to distract her. It's a contact sport, and he's better at it than she is.

 

“Whatever, I guess,” she manages to say, even as he keeps wandering all over her like-- ( _if ants know, then that's a totally different..._ ) And there go her shorts. Gone. Whoosh.

 

This is... this is a thing that's really happening, isn't it? How come he gets away with only undoing his belt and lowering his trousers a little, while she lies on the ground as exposed as an unearthed maggot, with her underwear hanging off one ankle? Why won't he say anything? She's agreed to this, so why won't he at least try to make it easier on her?

 

Did she screw up, somehow?

 

He keeps on moving her around, repositioning her like a mannequin. Is there a rule against talking? She wants to ask for some kind of affirmation, she wants to be told at least that she's doing a good job, even if she doesn't understand how to do this, and he has to do all the work of pulling her legs up around him and grasping her hip tightly with one hand to--

 

_In males, the ninth abdominal segment is divided into a dorsal 'tegumen' and ventral 'vinculum'. They form a ring-like structure for the attachment of genital parts and a pair of lateral clasping organs (claspers or 'harpe'). The male has a median tubular organ (called the aedeagus) which is extended through an eversible sheath (or 'vesica') to--_

 

It's a symphony of confusion, and Tara isn't sure why, since what she's doing is participating in a basic human behavior. She doesn't know what she wants-- doesn't want-- why do people like this? Why is she all shaky? Did she forget to eat today? Is that why she's shaking?

 

Everything is on fire, maybe. She's an envelope being cut with a fancy letter opener. Is this the way things usually work?

 

Slade's hand intertwines with hers, and she squeezes it as tightly as she can. Somehow, this makes her breathing less rapid. Instead of a vague haze of discomfort and embarrassment and plain shock, she's able to see the world for what it is. She can feel the concrete. Her hair itches against her neck. Slade is breathing hard, too. At least she's not the only one.

 

She realizes that this is the closest two people can be, physically, unless you count swallowing someone whole (like a wolf would do to a girl stupid enough to talk to strangers), or cutting them open and hiding inside of them. Both images are macabre and kind of funny. Both images involve one party being sacrificed to the other.

 

Caveman humor. Primitive and violent.

 

_When copulation takes place, the male butterfly or moth places a capsule of sperm (referred to as 'spermatophore') in a receptacle of the female (called the 'corpus bursae'). The sperm, when released from the capsule, swims directly into or via a small tube into a special seminal receptacle (called 'spermatheca'), where the sperm is stored until it is released into the vagina for fertilisation during egg laying, which may occur hours, days, or months after mating. The eggs pass through the ovipore. The ovipore may be at the end of a modified 'ovipositor' or surrounded by a pair of..._

 

And they separate into two creatures again, instead of whatever eight-limbed thing they'd been. Tara keeps that image to herself (bird-eating spider). She lies perfectly still, counts the pipes on the ceiling. She keeps losing track. She doesn't want to move, because she's kind of worried something weird will happen if she does. Like, what if her organs got jostled loose, and if she stands, they'll start falling out and she'll have to gather them up and stitch them back in place? She knows that won't happen, but a video of it is playing inside her eyelids, so she keeps her eyes open.

 

Slade sits next to her in an almost amiable silence. Tara hopes she hasn't accidentally broken some tiny bones in herself that will pierce through her skin like needles. Finally, she turns her head to look at him. Her neck is sore. It hardly participated. It doesn't have the right to be sore.

 

“So...” she starts. Her mouth feels like she's been eating paper. “That's, um... That was sex.” She decides that at this point, she has to sit up, or else she'll just look stupid. She'll look like a dumb naked paper-eating bug, so she sits up and wraps her arms around her knees. Conveniently enough, it also works as a temporary modesty-guard, although that doesn't really matter at this point. “Did I do alright?” she asks.

 

Slade looks at her as if she's suddenly started speaking in tongues. Tara can feel her stomach dropping. Then, he nods. “You did very well,” he says, and she’s able to breathe comfortably again. She’ll joke around a little. Break the tension.

 

“So formal.” She smiles, tilts her head coyly. “Was this just a business transaction?”

 

He keeps looking at her in that strange way. He’s mulling something over, certainly. He doesn’t seem to be picking up what she’s saying very well today, considering that he wouldn’t let her finish her story about what the Titans were doing, and he didn’t give her a real answer when she asked if he was sure about going through with this. Maybe she’s just talking nonsense today. That’s… a viable option. She tries again. An experiment to test her hypothesis: nothing she’s saying is making sense, so any discomfort she might have right now is a result of her own poor communication skills.

 

“Well, Mr. Wilson?”  
  


He stays silent, and she can feel anxiety congealing inside of her. She’s usually not like this. Why is she so nervous right now? Is this how it always feels, after doing this stuff? Come to think of it, it actually _would_ make sense if this was some kind of business thing. Tara’s tricked herself into thinking this was some kind of personal relationship, like love or friendship or family, and now she’s being punished for being stupid. She and Slade don’t _do_ love, friendship, or family. In the end, it’s all business. Their hands and minds and guns are for hire. Why did she assume this was different?

 

He embraces her and scoops her up onto his lap, and suddenly she relaxes, as though a button has been pressed. Everything is… fine. No matter what’s going on, it’s fine. She doesn’t have to worry, even though she is worrying. That’s “faith,” isn’t it? All this… all this confusion, and anxiety, and the soreness and the weird guilt in the back of her mind: all of these things are part of the human experience. She’s participated. This was a learning experience. She understands.

 

Even if her guts fall out of what she’s suddenly realized is a gaping and unnatural wound between her legs, where there should be smooth flatness like a Barbie doll.

 

After what feels like hours of silent closeness and shared body heat, he puts her down and tells her to get dressed. She does as quickly as she can, but for some reason she’s all shaky, so she fumbles a little bit with the buttons on her shorts. They’re a little too tight for comfort. She must have gained weight. That’s good, probably. Come to think of it, her ribs don’t protrude as much anymore. That’s definitely good.

 

He kisses her sweaty forehead, and sends her off. She walks part of the way, maybe faster than she needs to. Tara is experiencing a strong urge to run like a pursued animal, but she’s suppressing it. She glares at a few late-night lurkers and prowlers, and then rides a piece of broken concrete that had somehow been submerged in the bay until she reaches the Tower. For some reason, all those unpleasant feelings from before begin creeping back on her. How can something rot so fast?

 

There are no open windows, so she has to ride the elevator all the way up to the main ops. She’ll get some water, do some deep breathing exercises or something (those are just breathing really slow and holding your breath, right? She’s not exactly sure).

 

It’s only like 9:30. It feels as though it’s almost morning. How can so little time take so long?

 

Tara’s gonna eat some fruit like a wholesome piece of garbage and then she’s going to sleep, and when she wakes up in the morning, nothing will be weird anymore. Everything will make sense again. The elevator chimes happily and the door opens on a dark room.

 

She picks an apple off the counter in the kitchenette and starts washing it. She's not going to suddenly die of pesticide poisoning. That would be the dumbest way to die, considering all the shit she's handled.

 

Sex wasn't as bad as she was afraid it would be. It was unpleasant and a little painful at worst, but in comparison to slowly starving to death, it was pretty okay. It definitely wasn't as bad as having the shit beaten out of her by Sandwich Boy. It was humiliating, but it ended with getting attention, instead of with someone walking away with her dinner. He was always so smug about it, too. She hasn't thought about him in a while.

 

Sandwich Boy was Roderick Wells, on the TV. He was a human being with a family and a life beyond beating the shit out of her. He was shot twice, and now he's dead. Tara knows who did it. She doesn't want to think too much about that. She's never been shot. Sex probably isn't as bad as getting shot in the chest with a gun. Poor Roderick. He was the worst.

 

Would she have had sex with Roderick if he offered her something in return? That would be prostitution, of course, but she'd been pretty desperate when she was younger. She wouldn't have understood all the connotations. Now she's older, and she understands most things. Now, she won't be able to think about things in terms of moths and ants and caterpillars anymore. Now, she'll think of things in adult terms.

 

No, she won't. She's not an adult. Even if she's more of an adult than she was a few hours ago, she's still a stupid kid who doesn't know how to say “no.” A stupid, lazy, sexually provocative _Duck Dude's Party Band_ groupie.

 

Why does Duck Dude even have a band? Why does it play on the radio? Did the arcade or the band come first? How does he play guitar with his feather fingers? How does he sing? It's probably lip-synced. What's with the vibe? It's so edgy for such a sugary character design.

 

Tara realizes that she's still washing the apple. She's not hungry anymore. Was she hungry before? She turns off the faucet and puts the apple down. No, she should just eat it. She decided she was going to eat an apple. She needs to understand that--

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

Tara stumbles backward, nearly crashing into the refrigerator. Raven is sitting in the shadows, calm and emotionless as usual, ghostly with shining eyes. Instinctively, Tara begins to release a waterfall of curses, but then she realizes she's not allowed to be hostile, so she forces her face into a smile.

 

“Why would you think I was hurt?” she asks. She finds the light switch on the wall, and the overhead lamps flicker on. In the light, Raven looks a little less frightening and a lot more tired.

 

“I'm an empath, Tara,” Raven says. She stands. “It's kind of my thing. What happened?” She begins approaching slowly and deliberately, like a predator closing in on its prey.

 

“What are you doing?” Tara asks, trying not to sound like she's panicking. She needs to get out of here. She needs to take a shower and a Motrin. “Is this some kind of medical exam?” It's definitely some kind of medical exam. Raven is the team's healer. She's going to _see_ what Tara did with Slade, and she's going know, and she's going to tell everybody. Tara cracks a grin, and shrugs as she looks for possible escape routes. “I don't have insurance, so you should probably--”

 

Raven carefully lays her right hand on Tara's forehead, and time seems to freeze.

 

It's kind of like the ocean. Tara feels something like a tide rushing in around her ankles, but inside of her head. The undertow is strong, but Tara's been locked into place. All she can do is stand and let whatever is happening happen. That part's unsettling _(ant venom has paralytic effects, after all)_ but the overall feeling isn't bad at all. There are cool currents and rivulets of seawater racing each other behind her eyes and down through the back of her neck, and the fastest ones are pooling in her ribs.

 

Raven's eyes are closed, but they are moving beneath their lids, as though she's dreaming. Her eyebrows are lightly furrowed. Raven breathes in, deeply.

 

Suddenly, the tide draws away, and every individual stream flows backwards along the path it left, carrying bits of shattered clam shells and lost seagull feathers with it. Tara can feel it moving up and out, through her forehead into Raven's hand.

 

Raven lowers her arm, and immediately Tara can move again. It takes a moment for her to reorient herself. She's still in the main ops. She never left. This whole time, she could see it all around her, but something is different. For some reason, the lighting seems less harsh. Raven is a little shaky. For some reason, instead of being creepy or intimidating, right now she looks kind of like a normal girl.

 

“What was that?” Tara asks. She flexes her fingers, tries to understand this new sensation. They feel kind of... floppy, but in a good way.

 

“I took some of your feelings away,” Raven says, and Tara's stomach drops. “Is it any better?” Raven asks, in such a horribly calm voice.

 

“Did you read my mind?” Tara asks, and suddenly she's not floppy anymore. “Were you looking at my memories?” She shouldn't have relaxed like that. Tara just let Raven into her head. Her _head_ , where she keeps all the secrets. She's shaking and sweating, and if that isn't incriminating she doesn't know what is.

 

Raven shakes her head slightly, still so calm. “I can't do that. The closest I've ever gotten to that is visiting other people's dreams, and even that's too much for me to handle.” Raven smiles, and she looks almost shy (almost cute, even?). “It totally drains me. When I wake up, it's like I didn't get any sleep at all.”

 

And just like that, Tara relaxes again, oddly enough. Of course, it makes sense to relax, because that means Raven hasn't seen anything, but she's still done something, so...

 

“What _did_ you do, then?” Tara asks.

 

“I took the pain associated with your memories,” Raven says. “You still have them, right?”

 

“Still there,” Tara says, after spending a few seconds trying to remember if she'd forgotten something. It doesn't feel like she has. “Sure you didn't see anything?” she asks, just to be certain.

 

“No,” Raven says. “You don't have to tell me anything.”

 

But, then again, if somebody took away a memory, would Tara notice something was missing? What if Raven actually stole a big chunk of Tara's thoughts and is just lying?

 

“I--” Tara begins, but she stops herself. That scenario doesn't seem very likely, and she doesn't have that strong an urge to ruminate on it. Weird. “Thank you.”

 

Raven just keeps looking at her, almost expectantly. What else does Tara have to say?

 

“Why?” Tara asks, which is a good enough question. It could be “why” to a lot of different things, too: apart from the obvious _“why did you do what you did just now?”_ it could be _“why were you sitting in the dark?”_ or _“why are you always so quiet?”_ or even _“why haven’t I seen you smile before tonight?”_

 

“You know why,” Raven says. No, that’s wrong. For some reason, Tara doesn’t feel the need to debate about it, though. What the hell is going on? Some kind of brainwashing? No, that’s a little paranoid.

 

“Okay,” Tara says. Suddenly embarrassed, she looks down and realizes that she's put her shirt on backwards. “Fuck,” she announces. “I put my shirt on backwards.”

 

Raven nods, as though she’s encouraging a small child. “Go to sleep while you’re still calm,” she says. “Whatever frightened you shouldn’t be able to bother you tonight, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Tara says. Was she really that afraid, before? Is what she’s experiencing now just an absence of fear? Either way, she’s definitely calmer than she was, even if the feeling is strange. “Thanks, again. I needed that.”

 

“I know,” Raven says.

 

Tara leaves the room, and the lights turn off again as soon as she’s out. Raven must really like being in the dark. Who likes that? How strange.

 

When she gets to her room, the moon is shining silver-white through the window, bright despite all the light pollution from the city. Tara lies down on her bed, which has tangerine-orange sheets, and stares up at the ceiling. If this is an absence of fear, is she always afraid? What is she afraid of? What does she think will happen if she lets her guard down? Bad things, definitely. But what are they, and where do they come from? It doesn’t make sense to just be afraid as a default, so why?

 

“Mama was right,” she tells the ceiling. “Crazy is my inheritance, definitely.”

 

Despite this, she has gentle dreams.

\---

“’ _The False Grandmother,’” Brion said out loud. “That’s what it says on the cover. Do you want me to read it?”_

 

“ _No,” Tara said. “I saw the pictures already, and they were basically the same as I remembered.”_

 

_It had been a year since Tara’s arrival in Markovia. The experiments weren’t particularly painful, and they came in short doses of strange-feeling drugs and prolonged periods of time spent hooked up to various monitors and fluids. Tara didn’t really mind all that. Her age had hit double-digits, so she had to be mature about things._

 

“ _They have the same story in America?”_

 

“ _We call it ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’”_

 

“ _What is she riding?”_

 

_Tara shrugged. “It’s old. Who knows what they were thinking when they wrote it? It doesn’t have to be realistic or anything.”_

 

_Brion fell backwards onto the floor with his arms spread out and made a stupid whining noise. This was what he did when he didn’t know the English words to express his frustration. Tara liked when he did that. She actually preferred vague noises to words in a lot of situations. They conveyed the same ideas._

 

“ _If a wolf actually ate a girl, he’d tear her to bits. Then he’d eat the bits, and nobody would be able to put them back together, no matter what they tried.” The image in Tara’s mind is vivid: if she were torn apart by a wolf, her skin would be open and what was inside would look like cheap shredded meat._

 

“ _That’s gross,” Brion said, not moving from his position._

 

“ _It would hurt,” Tara said thoughtfully. “At least as much as having your belly sliced open so someone could escape from it.”_

 

“ _Don’t talk about terrible things like that,” Brion said._

 

“ _I’m crazy. I’m allowed to be terrible.”_

 

_Another whine._

 

_Tara decided to go for a wander, since Brion was being disagreeable. The halls of the castle were almost always empty, since it was a huge building without that many people living in it. It was nice, because at home, Tara couldn’t go anywhere without having to see people. Of course, back then she had her mother to watch over, so she couldn’t exactly go wandering anyway._

 

_When the sun hit the windows just right, it made beams that looked as though they’d been come from Heaven. Instead of sending down angels, they just caught falling dust, but the sun made the particles golden and fiery, and they looked like dancing stars. Tara had a similar situation back home, at the kitchen window. When she was very little, she would always try to catch the dust, because she didn’t know what it was._

 

_She asked Mama about them, and Mama said, “They’re fairy lights, and you should look without touching, because if you bother them, they won’t want to come back.”_

 

_Now that the windows were so big and the hallways were so wide, the fairy lights made Tara want to cry a little, which was stupid. She knew they were just dust, and there was nothing special about them. She knew fairies were made up. A lot of things were made up. People loved to tell lies to children, because those lies kept children innocent and pure._

 

_Tara wished sometimes that she wasn’t so good at spotting liars._

 

_Even though it was sad, she still sat in the yellow sunbeam on the floor because it was warm and bright, and it made the fibers of her wool socks and the little hairs on her arms glow._

 

_She sat there, and even though she was awake, it was like she was sleeping, because she didn’t realize how much time had passed until the floor was cold and nothing was glowing anymore._

 

“ _Are you alright?” asked somebody whose voice was deeper than Brion’s but higher than Viktor’s, with a stronger accent than either of them. “Did you fall?”_

 

_Gregor was standing awkwardly over her, a textbook tucked under his arm. This was the first time he’d actually spoken to her of his own volition, so she was a little startled._

 

“ _I didn’t know you could speak English,” she said._

 

“ _I must know it for diplomacy,” Gregor said. “Why haven’t you learned any Slovak?”_

 

“ _Don’t want to,” Tara said (secretly, and purely by accident, she had started making connections between words and objects and actions, but she was trying very hard not to). “If anybody wants to talk to me, they can learn how to speak English.”_

 

“ _How selfish.”_

 

“ _I know. But that way, the only people who talk to me are the ones who need to.” Tara smiled a little in spite of herself. It was a nice, devious way to go about things._

 

“ _I do need to talk to you. I have for a long time. I just want to tell you that I am… sorry that I’ve been unwelcoming,” Gregor said. He paused, thought over his words. “You were a shock to us.”_

 

“ _I know,” Tara said. She was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, while Gregor stood awkwardly in front of her. He knelt down stiffly so that they were at about the same eye level. The hall was gray-blue in the fading light._

 

“ _I must be honest. I was angry,” Gregor said. “I had not thought of my father as a philanderer. He told us when he started associating with Dr. Jace. That was two years before you arrived, and I had not believed him until I saw you.”_

 

“ _Hooray,” Tara said flatly, even though she didn’t know what a philanderer was. For someone with such a bad accent, Gregor knew a lot of fancy words._

 

“ _You look so like him,” Gregor said, smiling bitterly. He averted his eyes, played absently with the corner of his book. “I could not lie to myself, so I hated you. My mother still… She does not hate you, but does not want to see you. I apologize for that.”_

 

_Tara remained silent. What could she do in this situation? She was fine with being hated. It was what she wanted, given the scenario. She hated Viktor, his wife, and Gregor. The only one she didn’t hate was Brion, and that was because he’d really forced non-hatred onto her._

 

“ _Brion has been a good brother to you,” Gregor continued. “I cannot be your brother. My family was already complete when you arrived.”_

 

“ _I know,” Tara said. “Mine was complete before I came here. I don’t want to be a part of your family.”_

 

_Gregor’s eyes widened for a second, and then he shook his head. “We are the royal line of Markovia. Our country is named for us. Why would you not want to be a part of this?”_

 

“ _If you won’t let me join, why are you rubbing it in my face?” Tara asked._

 

“ _It is an insult that you don’t want to,” Gregor said. “Don’t pretend that living alone with a sick woman was better than being with us.”_

 

“ _She wasn’t sick!” Tara said, and her face was heating up._

 

“ _My father told me about her!” Gregor said, and Tara could see his ears reddening. “She showed up and pretended to be excitable and adventurous and bright, and she seduced him and he wasted his money on expensive gifts for her, and then when she became tired of him she acted as though she was dead, and wouldn’t even speak to him!” There were tears welling up in his eyes. “She pretended to be everything my mother couldn't be. She had no responsibilities, so of course she could be spontaneous,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head hard. “That woman lied and took his money, and even after she was gone, she kept on doing it. I know about the checks.”_

 

“ _He told you that?” Tara asked, stumbling to her feet. Her voice was steadily rising. “He sent the checks because he had a kid that he didn’t want to deal with in person! That bastard told you that my mother was some kind of greedy witch who came in and tricked him!?”_

 

“ _You, of all people, have no right to call him that!” Gregor said, standing up all gracefully and princelike. Tara hated him so much in that moment._

 

“ _She hated him anyway!” Tara said, and now she was yelling. Her voice was echoing through the halls. “She told me! She told me to say that he died in a wildfire!”_

 

“ _You’re just agreeing that she was a liar,” Gregor said, and his fists were clenched. Tara silently wondered if he had the guts to hit her. He was big enough hurt her badly. She wanted that. “That madwoman was a liar and a thief and a damn whore!”_

 

“ _So am I!” Tara shouted. “I wish your father was dead! I wish he’d died in a wildfire! I’m all those things you said about my mother, and I dare you to say them again!”_

 

“ _Liar, madwoman,” Gregor said, jaw clenched. “I’m only saying what’s true.”_

 

“ _Good,” Tara said, and now she was grinning widely, and her heart was pounding like a jackhammer._

 

“ _Thief,” Gregor said, and Tara saw a tear dripping from his chin. It was cast dramatically in the last light of the day. Nighttime was closing in on them, with all its silence, and their harsh breathing felt violent._

 

“ _And the last thing,” Tara said, stepping forward and staring up at him. Her hair was sticking to her forehead, her nose was running, and she was smiling. She tilted her head._

 

“ _You’re a child.”_

 

“ _I’m everything that my mother was. Your father has nothing to do with me.”_

 

“ _I’m not going to call a child--“ Gregor suddenly hiccupped, and for a second, Tara felt pity for him. It didn’t last long._

 

“ _I’m a madwoman, a liar, a thief and a whore,” Tara said, standing on the tips of her toes. “I’m everything my mother was.”_

 

_Gregor was silent, with gritted teeth. Tears were streaming down his face now, and he was clutching his textbook like a bible._

 

“ _I wish he was dead,” Tara said, and now she wasn’t smiling. “Mama told me that if anyone asked, I should say my daddy turned to dust. The truth is, I don’t have a father. You aren’t my brother. My only family is buried across the ocean.”_

 

_Tara turned to leave. The hallway was almost completely dark, save for the silhouette behind her of a tall, gangly, shaking boy: a prince reduced to a human being._

 

_If her daddy turned to dust, would he dance as he floated through sunbeams?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, also, there are excerpts from the wikipedia page on lepidopteran reproduction. In order to enhance the experience of reading this story, I recommend looking at pictures of european ghost moths (male, female, larval, the whole shebang). Also, I've been pissed at the Outsiders comic for acting as though Belgium is in Eastern Europe, which is not only incorrect but also linguistically irritating, so I just bit the bullet and made Markovia's national language Slovak, because that's my roots (tm).
> 
> The League of Shadows Custody Battle is legendary within my personal canon. I can promise you that it involved a very stressed out teendad, a very upset Green Arrow, and also Cheshire lost some good connections because the League of Shadows doesn't want anything to do with that drama (Talia, you hypocrite). She then proceeded off to do her own shit, and also not pay any child support money.
> 
> **Up Next:** A gremlin apologizes. Someone has a bad dream. Someone is horrified by two happy people behaving affectionately towards each other in a healthy relationship.  
>  **ADDITIONALLY:**  
>  _forever jung, i wanna be forever jung_


	5. Loon Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody goes on a roaring adventure. Somebody is injured. Nobody ever understands what dreams mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I disappeared for 25 years but here I am again. 
> 
> My posting schedule in general is going to be erratic because of midterms (might get something up during spring break the week after this but I don't know because I have a lot that I'm working on for school right now). Had dinner with some relatives, there was kind of an awkward moment during grace because my aunt threw in a bit about keeping america free and keeping our guns at the end of grace so that was weird.
> 
> you don't even have a gun chill out Catherine

Tara’s never been camping before, but so far, she thinks she likes it. Apparently, Dick is Dick Grayson, as in Bruce Wayne’s kid, so he’s super fucking rich. Offensively rich. The other day, he told everybody to clear their schedules for the week, without explaining why. As it turns out, Dick's rented out a whole damn mountain just so the Titans can participate in a “bonding exercise.” Apparently, that means stomping through the woods like a herd of dumbasses and laughing all the way.

 

She actually feels kind of lucky, because now, she has a whole quiet mountainside covered in big rocks and interesting bugs to play with. Her lenses won’t be able to handle a week of goofing around, so she’s left them at the Tower, after explaining to Slade that she'd be off the grid for a team thing (she hadn't known exactly what the team thing would be at that point). He'd agreed to it, on the condition that she visit the compound on Saturday, as soon as she was available.

 

Out of sight, out of mind.

 

It’s like a free vacation, even if it’s with a bunch of idiots.

 

“The wilderness is where I belong,” Gar announces, stretching like a cat. That’s because he kind of is a cat at the moment. “It brings out all of my animal instincts.”

 

“That’s nice,” Raven says. She’s reading a small hardcover novel. Tara can’t make out the title, but Raven hasn’t stopped looking at it for the whole hike. How hasn’t she tripped over anything yet? Tara’s already tripped over Gar like three times. She’s starting to suspect he’s doing it on purpose.

 

“I don’t think housecats qualify as wild animals, dude,” Vic says.

 

“Feral cats are dangerous to local bird populations,” Kory adds. She’s flying lazily alongside them, with her belly up and her hair dangling so it nearly touches the ground. “It is imperative that we keep close watch over Gar, in order to maintain the integrity of this ecosystem.”

 

Vic laughs. “You’re getting better at jokes, Star.”

 

“I do my best,” Kory says, smiling.

 

“How about a bobcat, then?” Gar asks, changing his shape accordingly.

 

“It’s more accurate, I guess,” Tara says. “Where are Dick and Donna?”

 

“They drove ahead to set up the tents,” Vic says. “They belong to Donna, so she knows how they work.”

 

“How rough is the camping gonna be, exactly?” Gar asks. He looks a little nervous, even though he has a cat face.

 

“The brochure was nice,” Vic says, scratching his chin. “They’ve got bathrooms, and raised platforms so we don’t have to sleep on the ground.”

 

“Tara could raise us a platform,” Gar says, rubbing up against her legs.

 

“Like I would,” Tara says.

 

“You would.”

 

“It’s still sleeping on the ground,” Raven interrupts. Gar sulks a little.

 

“Dirt isn’t that bad,” Tara says. “At least, I don’t really mind it.”

 

“That’s not surprising,” Vic says. “Dirt loves you.”

 

“Yeah,” Gar says, nodding eagerly. “If dirt could marry a person, it would marry you.”

 

“Dirt has prepared two ceremonial scarves to weave together and then burn in order to symbolize your lifelong bond,” Kory says. “Dirt has gathered a sacrifice of round fruits with single pits so X’hal may bless you with courageous offspring.”

 

“Dirt doesn’t want to marry any of us,” Raven says. “So we’re less eager to spend time with it.”

 

“Hey! Hey!!!” Dick runs up to them breathlessly. He’s wearing a tacky flannel shirt and high-waisted jeans, and he’s smiling like a little kid. “Donna and I have the first tent up. Wanna see it?”

 

“Absolutely!” Kory says. She drops down and lands on her feet. “I would like to see the tent very much!”

 

“Me too, me too!” Gar shapeshifts back into his usual boy-shape, and bounces a little on his heels.

 

“That took a while,” Vic says. “Do you think that if the rest of us help, the next tent will be easier to set up?”

 

“Probably,” Dick says. “I’m a little worried they’ll be too small.”

 

“Tara and I don’t mind tight quarters,” Gar says, wiggling his eyebrows. Ew. _Ew._ Tara flips him off. Vic puts his hand over hers and gently closes her fist, then looks at Gar and shakes his head slowly.

 

“You’ll be sleeping with me and Vic,” Dick says. He has his hands on his hips and looks for all the world like somebody’s angry mom.

 

“Boy’s night in,” Gar says. He still seems pretty cheerful. “Let’s give each other manicures and talk about girls.”

\---

Despite the on-site showers, everybody rapidly becomes grimy and disgusting. It’s not too big a deal, because if everybody’s gross, then it’s something they have in common, instead of just someone being gross. They have a week to spend on the mountain, and Dick has a list of activities planned for every day. It's exhausting, but everybody is laughing and smiling and complaining together, which makes it a little better.

 

No, that's not how it should be. Tara is better and smarter than they are, so she should be annoyed. There's nothing fun about being around a bunch of stupid teenagers. Tara knows, intuitively, that the company of adults suits her better. She's had pretty much all of the experiences required for adulthood: she smokes, and she drinks when she can entice Slade into sharing (it usually doesn't work, but it's always worth a try). She's lived alone before, and she's had people depend on her. She's had conversations about business, and she's cashed checks for working solo contracts. She's had sex.

 

It's a checklist in her head, and maybe the other Titans—no, just the Titans-- have all done some combination of those things, but she's the only one who's done _all_ of them. Dick and Kory are definitely sleeping together. Donna has a job, and Vic lived alone until he joined the Titans, apparently. But there's no way that Gar isn't a huge virgin (nobody would make dirty jokes if they knew that sex was terrible), and Dick leeches off his rich dad. They're all too damn pure to drink and smoke. Maybe champagne on New Year's, but that's it.

 

Tara trips over Raven and lands on her face. That's what happens when you get lost in your thoughts. The dirt smells nice. It's got a strong, mulchy spice to it, the kind that only happens when organic matter decays undisturbed over a course of several years--

 

“Are you okay?” Raven asks, startling Tara out of her dirt reverie.

 

“Fuck you,” Tara says into the dirt. A little gets in her mouth. It doesn't taste _good_ per say, but she's definitely experiencing it with all her senses now, so there's something. She sits up and spits out a little dirt. “What are you even doing out here?”

 

“I _was_ meditating,” Raven says. “But then somebody fell on top of me. What are you doing out here?”

 

Tara shrugs. “I don't know. Walking. Then I tripped over a dirt-goth.”

 

Raven's mouth curves in a funny way, and Tara realizes she's trying to hide a smile. For some reason, Tara feels the urge to say something else dumb, to try and make her laugh. She wants to see what Raven looks like when she's laughing. Yeah, that would be--

 

“How are you holding up?” Raven asks, straight-faced again. “Are you feeling better?”

 

“What-- what are you talking about!?” Tara asks, stumbling backwards. “I'm great!” No, she doesn't want to see Raven laugh. That's stupid. She wants Raven to be quiet. Because Raven can't ask that question, because Raven can't bring up what happened on that night, because Tara isn't sure if--

 

“You said you were cramping up, earlier,” Raven says. “I can help with that.” Tara sighs in relief, and hopes it's not too obvious. Earlier, Tara had complained that her legs were cramping from all the walking.

 

“Oh. I'm feeling better. I'm just not a fan of hiking.” She wants to change the subject, fast. The conversation topic _“Tara is Uncomfortable”_ has a lot of potential for disaster. “What does meditating do? Does it help you calm down, or is it religious, or...?”

 

“It's a lot of things,” Raven says. “I want my mind to be silent, so I focus on blocking out everything that might stimulate it. If I'm in control of my thoughts and feelings, my powers are stronger and I have a better grip on them.”

 

“Huh.” Raven can block out unwanted thoughts. Does she have a lot of them? “So, like, you're able to erase weird thoughts, or stop them from scaring you?”

 

“Something like that,” Raven says.

 

“Show me how.”

\---

Tara sucks at meditating. No matter how hard she tries, even if she chants quietly and counts her breaths, there's a constant stream of _“they're disgusting”_ and _“you can't”_ and _“look how much you fucked up”_ and _“he/she/_ _**he** _ _is coming for you, and you can't stop it from happening.”_

 

Tara gives up, but Raven still seems pleased (her expression reminds Tara of a relaxed cat, instead of an angry one).

 

“Thank you for trying, at least,” Raven says. “Not many people want to join in.”

 

Tara's face feels kind of hot, so she leaves as quickly as possible.

\---

They all do some combat training, except for Raven, who refuses on the grounds that she's a pacifist (even though Tara suspects it's just because she wants to stay in her sleeping bag and lie there like a slug). Everybody takes turns doing one-on-one, starting with Dick and Donna. They square off in a rope circle in the middle of an unoccupied campsite (it has a slightly unsettling atmosphere, since it has the same layout as theirs but is empty).

 

It looks like they're dancing. Maybe it's because they've known each other for so long, but their movements are synchronized and graceful; they're dodging and swooping and blocking each other, and neither of them gets many hits in. Moreover, they seem to be really enjoying it. It almost looks like dogs playing with each other, which is weird, considering how tough they both are (not as tough as Tara, of course. Tara is stronger than any of these losers).

 

Dogs playing. Donna would probably be some kind of long-legged pointer hound, and Dick would be... Tara thinks it over, and decides on a golden retriever. Soft and friendly and maybe smart, but probably dumb. Gar would be one of those little yappy terriers, and Kory would be something big and poofy and energetic, like a poodle. Vic would be a rottweiler maybe, because he looks scary and gets really protective, but if you know him--

 

“Tara? Tara!” Donna's yelling. “It's your turn, what's wrong?”

 

“I was thinking about politics!” Tara says. She's not about to admit that she was imagining everybody as dogs.

 

Raven would be a cat.

 

Tara stretches and snaps her knuckles. “Who am I with?”

 

“Well, Donna and I were together, and then Vic went with Kory,” Dick says. “So that leaves you with Gar.” Upon seeing Tara's horrified expression, he whispers, “Sorry.”

 

“I guess it's just you and me, huh, babe?” Gar sidles into the rope circle like an idiot.

 

“I guess it is,” Tara says, assuming her usual fighting position. “Don't call me that.”

 

At first, it goes fine. Gar's fighting style is kind of interesting when she pays attention to it: he's constantly changing between different weights and sizes without losing balance once, and he's creative about what animals to use for what moves. He's difficult to hit, which is frustrating, but at least it isn't boring.

 

“Aww, you're going easy on me,” he says halfway between a crocodile and a lemur. “Don't worry, I'm tough.” He wiggles his fluffy, striped tail and jumps onto Tara's shoulder. She tries to smack him off, but he easily scampers around her neck to the other side, and _licks her ear_ with his stupid little tongue before jumping off and turning into a buffalo. Tara is dumbstruck for a second (how dare he?).

 

She sucker-punches him with a pillar of earth right beneath his stomach, which flings him into the air. She hears Donna gasp behind her, which is annoying, but Tara's focused on this. She's good at this stuff. Gar is a beetle when he hits the ground, so there's hardly any impact and he bounces a little before he's done turning into some kind of big cat (Tara's not one of those fancy zoologists; she has other shit to do).

 

“That hurt,” he says, flicking his tail. He doesn't sound particularly hurt. He sounds like he thinks this is funny. _It's not_. Tara launches five rocks at him from different directions, but he jumps out of the way before they hit him, and tilts his head playfully at her. “Not a cat person?” he asks. “I can do dogs, too, if you like.”

 

“I don't like,” Tara mutters, trying to ignore how fast her heart is beating. It's making her dizzy. Gar turns into what she thinks is a coyote (or a wolf, or maybe a jackal, she has no damn clue at this point), so she surrounds herself with a circle of spikes and gets her five launching-rocks floating again. Dog-Gar charges at her, easily clears her fence, and knocks her over before she's able to do any damage. He's a... he's a big dog, and she's just kind of stuck there. _She doesn't like it._

 

“Fighter down.” He flashes a stupid dog-smile at her. “Better throw me off before the long count's over, or you're out!”

 

“Very funny,” Tara says, squirming. “Get off me, creep.”

 

“Hey, this is a contact sport. If you don't wanna play, then you shouldn't. Anyway, don't you like puppy kisses?” He tries to punctuate this with a puppy kiss, but she headbutts him in the nose and shoves him off. He looks kind of offended, as if it were normal to just fucking lick people.

 

“Game's not over,” she says, standing and wiping a bit of dog drool from her face.

 

“Playing hard to get, I see,” Gar says. “Is this better?” Suddenly, he's a big-ass snake, and before she can stomp his head into the ground he's wrapped all around her like she's a pig in the jungle, and she's down again, and she's pathetic again, and she can't fucking--

 

“It's not better,” Tara says, gritting her teeth. “Stop being a shitbag.” Gar squeezes a little, and reminds her exactly how useless her arms are at the moment. All she can do is squirm like a dying caterpillar, and Gar thinks this is _funny?_

 

“Just a hug,” he says. “Frankly, I'm offended that you keep on spurning me the way you do. My poor heart's gonna break.”

 

“If you don't stop, I'll fucking kill you,” she says quietly.

 

“Ouch. So not even one kiss, then?”

 

Tara sees red. She launches the both of them up into the air with another jutting pillar of rock, which shocks him back into his human shape _(good)_ and bruises her ribs. Tara manages to catch herself with another pillar, and flings a hunk of her last one at Gar. It hits him between the shoulderblades, and he seems to hover for a second before another rock hits him from above and smashes him into the ground.

 

“How's that for a kiss?” she asks as she jumps off her pillar. She lands on her feet, because she's not the kind of person who gets hurt doing stupid things. Gar tries to respond, but apparently, being pinned under a boulder makes it hard to talk. Funny, how being trapped can get in the way of doing things.

 

“So, I figure you want another?” Tara asks, cocking her head. She lifts up her launching-rocks again, and slowly walks toward him. “I mean, all you got was a little peck, and you've made it pretty clear you're not the type of guy to just give up, so--”

 

That's when a Starbolt hits her in the middle of the back and knocks her flat on her face.

\---

“What were you thinking!?” Donna asks. Dick is hovering behind her with his hands on his hips. They're both glaring.

 

Tara crosses her arms and presses her lips together. She doesn't need to justify herself.

 

Vic's gone back to the campsite to fetch Raven, and Kory's cooing over poor battered Gar like he's a baby bunny. Tara, apparently, is being interrogated by a pair of soccer moms for doing exactly what she was supposed to be doing: fighting Gar. She just fought him too enthusiastically. Is that a crime?

 

“You could have killed him!” Donna says. “We were yelling at you to stop, and you just kept going!”

 

“I didn't hear you,” she says, honestly. “I was focusing on the fighting.”

 

“You should never get so focused that you forget where you are,” Donna says. “And if you let yourself get so lost in your head that you don't realize you're hurting people, then we've got some serious work to do. God, I knew you were kind of new to this job, but I hadn't thought... Dick? Dick, are you even paying attention?”

 

Why does everyone keep acting as if Tara doesn't know what she's doing? She knew she was hurting Gar. That was the _point_. If she hadn't, he would have kept on hassling her forever, so...

 

“Sorry,” Dick says, shaking himself out of his apparent stupor. “I think you might have broken his leg,” he continues, looking worriedly over his shoulder at Gar and Kory. “What are we going to tell Raven?”

 

“What do you mean 'what are we going to tell Raven?'” Donna asks. “Don't tell me you're going to lie to her about this!”

 

“Donna, you _know_ that if--” he looks at Tara, and then at Donna. “I've talked with you about this stuff.”

 

“Ooh, secrets,” Tara says. She smirks. “Are you worried that Raven might snap and go all demon on us if she hears that I did something scary?”

 

Dick runs a hand down his face. “Tara, just... just sit down for a while and cool off. Donna and I have to talk this over.”

 

He walks a few meters away, and gestures for Donna to follow him. Donna spends a second looking at Tara with narrow, angry eyes, but she follows Dick anyway.

 

Tara plops onto the ground and sighs.

 

She's mostly just happy that she's not wearing her lenses. If she were wearing her lenses, she'd be in actual trouble, instead of whatever this is.

\---

“ _During the sparring exercise, Tara went too far and Gar got hurt. This was partially because Gar had been goading Tara with inappropriate comments, and partially because Tara had been overly aggressive and hadn't been careful with her powers.”_

 

That's the story. Most of it is true.

 

“Sorry for teasing you,” Gar says. He looks genuinely ashamed. That's not enough. Tara had, in that moment he had her constrained, wanted him dead. Wanting someone dead is a big deal. At this exact moment, Tara doesn't really want him dead, but she still doesn't like or trust him.

 

“Yeah,” is all she can really think to say.

 

“Everyone is really anxious,” Raven says as she kneels on the ground next to Gar. “Is everything okay?”

 

“I'm just wondering when you're gonna take out the bonesaw,” Gar says. “To amputate my leg, I mean.”

 

“I'm not going to...” Raven pauses, mulls the statement over. “That was a joke.”

 

“Yeah.” Gar winces.

 

“Funny,” Raven says, nodding. “Please lie still.”

 

Raven lays her hand on Gar's chest and closes her eyes. Her arm shakes a little and she grits her teeth. Tara realizes with a start that a massive bruise has appeared out of nowhere on her ankle, which is peaking out from under her long cotton skirt. The bruise disappears a second afterward, and Raven releases a heavy breath.

 

“It wasn't too bad,” she says. “There was a little fracture and some bruising, but nothing was really broken.”

 

“Thanks,” Gar says, lifting and bending his leg experimentally. “Am I allowed to stand? Kory wouldn't let me stand.”

 

“He was hurt, and I was keeping him from getting more hurt,” Kory says simply.

 

Raven offers Gar a hand and they stand up together. He grins.

 

“No harm done, then,” he says. “I think I'm gonna be a horse for a while. Rae, do you want a pony ride as thanks for saving my leg?”

 

“No,” Raven says.

 

“Your loss,” he says, tossing his mane and trotting off into the woods.

 

“I think they shoot horses with broken legs,” Vic says thoughtfully. “Good thing it was just a small fracture.”

 

Kory nods solemnly.

 

Tara doesn't know why she feels so gross, since nobody seems to be angry at her anymore.

\---

“I'm sorry and I promise to try to not damage your bones,” Tara mutters quickly as she shoves past Gar on the way to the bathroom.

 

She isn't sure that he hears her, but Donna looks up in surprise.

 

Tara makes a point of not paying attention.

\---

In a sunny hollow in the woods, Tara sees something she probably shouldn't see.

 

Dick and Kory are lying together on an old blanket, talking cheerfully to each other. They look disheveled, but in a pleasant way. Dick has mud on his mom jeans, and Kory has leaves in her hair. Dick says something and Kory laughs and pulls him closer. She brushes his bangs out of his eyes, and they just look at each other for a moment.

 

He kisses her lips gently, for several seconds. There's nothing rough or angry about it. When he breaks the kiss, she smiles at him and says something which is apparently embarrassing, because Dick's ears are red. She rolls over and looks at the sky. He joins her, and points at what is apparently an interesting cloud, or maybe a bird. Tara can't tell. She is hiding behind a tree like a pervert, watching a personal moment.

 

Dick nestles up against Kory and lays his head on her shoulder. She kisses his hairline, and he kisses her neck, not in a hungry way, but seemingly just because it's there. She points at a cloud or a bird. Maybe an airplane. Who knows? Kory says something, maybe an explanation.

 

They just lie there like that, for a long time.

 

Eventually, Tara leaves, because she feels a little dirty for spying on that kind of scene.

 

They looked so happy. Tara sits down in the gravel by the lake, rests her chin on her knees. What a childish relationship, all giggling and light touching. Who do they think they are? Dick is some dopey spoiled rich boy, and Kory's a pile of boobs who hates wearing clothes. They're caricatures, basically. Idiots like them don't deserve to look at each other that way.

 

Kisses aren't supposed to be affectionate, and embraces are for special occasions only. It's wasteful to walk around holding hands, all moon-eyed and silly.

 

Adult love is painful, and that's why it's worth it.

 

Tara is jealous. She wants to be stupid, like a little kid having her first crush. Dick and Kory are older than she is, so how come they don't know the truth yet? Are they really that naive?

 

Tara can't stop herself from sniffling a little into her jeans.

\---

That night, in the tent, everybody's squashed together like canned sardines. Do people still eat canned sardines? Tara's only ever seen them in cartoons.

 

Donna is on one side of the tent, and Kory is nestled up shamelessly against her. Raven is partially buried in Kory's enormous hair, but enough of her is visible for Tara to viscerally sense her presence next to her.

 

Tara warns Raven that she's not into snuggling. Raven gets offended at the implication that she _is_ into snuggling. Ultimately, they both try to stay as far away from each other as they can. For Tara, this means pressing against the cold edge of the tent. For Raven, it means burrowing further into Kory's hair, which looks warm and fluffy. Tara is a little bit jealous.

 

It takes a while( it must be the cold), but eventually, Tara drifts off into a fitful sleep.

 

“ _When did you start calling him 'papa' to his face?” Mama asks. “Was it when you met him?”_

 

_Tara shakes her head. Her hair is long, like it was when she was a child. She is a child. She's sitting on the counter in the kitchenette in Titans Tower, and fairy-light dust specks are falling from the ceiling._

 

“ _You know when,” Tara says._

 

_Mama hums a little. She's looking well today. She must have eaten this morning. Tara smiles._

 

“ _You gave up too quickly,” Slade says from a chair in the living area, where he's sprawled out casually with his hands behind his head. It's the chair Raven was sitting in, on that night. “You started speaking in Slovak and calling those boys your brothers. You even took their last name and kept it.”_

 

“ _I'm sorry,” Tara says, and a pang of guilt echoes in her chest. She turns to ask Mama if what she's done is wrong, but Mama's not there anymore._

 

_Of course she isn't._

 

_She steps outside to get some air. Darla is heaving a bag of trash into the dumpster, which is impressive considering her massively swollen belly. She looks at Tara, and smiles._

 

“ _How was your day?” she asks, leaning down a little to meet Tara's eye._

 

“ _Terrible,” Tara says. “I had sex.”_

 

“ _I hope it gets better soon,” Darla says as a wolf crawls out from between her legs, whimpering and bloody. She doesn't seem to notice._

 

“ _The baby's coming,” Tara says. “We should call a doctor.”_

 

“ _Don't waste your time,” Slade says, putting his hand on Tara's shoulder. “They're just drug dealers in clean coats, you know.”_

 

_They go on a walk through town. Tara isn't sure exactly which town it is. The architecture is twisted and the letters on the signs don't make sense. She recognizes the grocery store from her childhood, but she also sees the sandwich shop Roderick likes to hang around._

 

“ _Bitch!” he yells from across the street. She ignores him._

 

“ _Have you ever seen a ghost moth caterpillar?” Tara asks, tugging on Slade's hand. “They're ugly, but they grow up to be beautiful.”_

 

“ _I'm familiar with them,” Slade says. He gestures at the alley. Roderick is half-transformed into a massive fat caterpillar, swarming with ants. “But I avoid them, since they're usually a burden.”_

 

_Tara lets go of Slade's hand and rushes to help him, because even if he's terrible, being eaten by ants is an awful way to die. Slade grabs her wrist before she can do anything._

 

_Suddenly, the ants stop devouring the caterpillar-Roderick, and begin to move in her direction. Tara's stomach turns. She has to escape, so she wrenches her wrist from Slade's grasp and runs as fast as she can._

 

_Somebody grabs her ankle, but she can't see who._

 

_She falls face-down onto the concrete. It's abrasive. It wasn't meant for bare skin. The ants keep coming. She slaps at them desperately, but each time she kills one squadron another seems to appear out of nowhere. They climb on her hands and up her arms. They are on her face and under her shirt and in her ears and they are all dreadfully alive._

 

“ _Are you sure?” she asks them. They don't respond, because ants don't speak. Instead, they take the opportunity to crawl into her mouth. In the distance, she can see a figure, blurred by the heat haze. It's struggling to move, but it's definitely heading in her direction._

 

_The ants are mapping out the cartography of her body. They are tearing away pieces of her flesh and parading off with them. Inside, she looks like cheap shredded meat. How horrible. At the very least, she should be paid for this, right? If she's going to be devoured--_

 

“ _Is this a job?” she asks. Her hand and gun are for hire, so why not the meat she's made of?_

 

“ _No,” Slade says, crouching down and stroking her hair. The ants keep devouring. “It's love and friendship and family.”_

 

_He becomes the ants._

 

_The ants make a landscape of her, marching in and out of her with no discretion, parading like soldiers on Independence Day. Each part of her is a wound, an unnatural gash her organs will fall from. In, out, in, out, a constant flow of wriggling legs and biting jaws._

 

_Raven is standing over her, and her hair is a window into an alien night sky. She has a look of deep sorrow in her eyes. She seems tall when Tara is small and decaying._

 

“ _I don't want to hurt you,” Raven says._

 

“ _It's just a business transaction,” Tara says, and that's the moment she realizes that she's been hollowed out. The ants begin to flow rapidly out of her mouth and her nose and every exit they can find, and Tara loses her structural integrity, and her skin begins to collapse like a deflated balloon, and Raven grabs her hand before it begins to wrinkle and flap like empty clothing, and she squeezes it tightly._

 

Tara wakes up. It's cold.

 

Raven's forehead is pressed to hers, and her eyes are wide open. She looks genuinely worried.

 

“What the hell did you just do to me?” Tara whispers.

 

“What are you talking about?” Raven asks. The breath from her mouth looks like smoke in the cold.

 

“That dream,” Tara says. She can still feel the ants crawling through her insides. “You grabbed my hand, and our eyes open at the same time.”

 

“I didn't have any dreams,” Raven says. “If you dreamed about me, it was a coincidence.”

 

That can't be right. “I was having a nightmare, and you showed up, and then I was awake.” And that, combined with the fact that Raven's head is literally pressed against hers and that Raven has been confirmed to have freaky psychic powers, makes a pretty strong case. But, on the off-chance that Raven is telling the truth, then what's going on?

 

“I don't know what that means,” Raven says. “Maybe you should try to interpret it.”

 

“If anyone here can interpret dreams, it's you,” Tara says, rolling her eyes. Miss Witchy-Poo is telling Tara to interpret her own dreams. Honestly.

 

“No, no, I can't,” Raven says, very fast. “ Read a book. Jung, not Freud, he makes everything about sex. Jung loved Freud a lot, actually, but then they got in a fight because Jung didn't want to make everything about sex anymore and Freud told him to leave, and it broke his heart, and he went into a very dark place for a while and--”

 

What's going on here? Is this what happens when Raven is nervous? She talks fast about dream interpreters with complicated love lives? Tara has mercy and interrupts her.

 

“I'll find a Jung book,” Tara says. “About dreams.”

 

“G-- good,” Raven says. She makes a pale attempt at a smile. Tara wishes she'd make a real one, but, well, what can you do? Tara tries to smile back, and fails.

 

They both wake up the next morning feeling exhausted.

\---

It takes forever for the sediments at the bottom of a lake to settle, but Tara's a selfish person, so she takes a big chunk of them anyway. It's one of the biggest dirtballs she's managed to summon, but it's full of water, so it's a lot heavier than it needs to be.

 

Tara's decided she'll do a little experiment. She's going to see how much water she can get out just by compressing her dirtball. She's gonna make this thing so fucking dense. It's gonna be amazing. Everybody's going to be so impressed, because she made this ball of dirt so unimaginably dense and not-wet.

 

It takes all of her focus just to keep it in the air. Tara has no control over water, so it's an effort just to keep the ball from sloughing off into the lake on its own. Carefully, she begins to roll her hands, almost miming the motion of making a snowball. The dirtball over the lake trembles and begins to compress, and Tara grins when she sees the muddy water draining back into the lake in an uneven, sputtering stream.

 

“Boo~” somebody hugs her from behind and her dirtball splashes into the lake as an indistinct blob of goop and _oh shit oh shit what's happening--_

 

Tara hurls Gar into a pine tree with an impressive crash. She immediately regrets her action, because she promised earlier not to damage his bones anymore, and she thinks she might have broken his spine.

 

“Hi, Gar,” she says, turning and waving. “How does your spine feel?”

 

“Fine,” Gar says, uncurling from an armadillo back into a boy-shaped disaster. “Sorry if I startled you. Do you know jujitsu or something?”

 

“Something like that,” Tara says. She's remembering hours of practice back at the compound. She was never able to really hurl Slade. She needs to get better if she's going to keep fighting people bigger than she is.

 

“Anyway,” Gar says, “I mostly want to apologize about acting like a perv.”

 

“Sneaking up on me wasn't a great way to start your apology,” Tara says, crossing her arms.

 

Gar laughs nervously. “Bad decision on my part. Bad decisions _are_ kind of my thing, though.” He smiles, and she kind of wants to hit him again.

 

“Not helping,” Tara says.

 

Gar sighs. “Sorry. I really do mean that. I know that I can be kind of grating sometimes.”

 

“You can be,” Tara says. “But I, uh. I know that sometimes I attack people when I shouldn't.”

 

Gar sits down under a pine tree, right by the edge of the water. “I think I need to work on my people skills,” he says. “I'm looking back on what happened the other day, and some of the stuff I said.”

 

“I said I was gonna kill you,” Tara says. She hesitates for a moment, but then she joins him under the tree. “Then I waled on you until Kory zapped me.”

 

“Maybe we both need to work on our people skills.”

 

“Some things kind of make me lose it,” Tara says. “Weirdly specific things. This isn't an excuse, but I think I might have found a new thing. I really don't like being held down.”

 

“Lots of us have things, I think,” Gar says. “They don't really make me 'lose it,' but I don't like waterfalls.”

 

“Huh.” Tara decides not to ask about it, because she doesn't want Gar asking about her things.

 

“I haven't been fair,” he says. “I keep on doing stuff that upsets you just because _I_ think I'm being funny, and I always expect you to eventually figure out the joke and laugh with me. Then I get annoyed, so I just bother you more.”

 

“I know that I overreact,” Tara says.

 

“Just because you react harder than other people would doesn't make what I'm doing any better,” he says. He looks out at the lake. “There's a loon here,” he says, pointing to a distant shape that's bobbing along at a leisurely rate. It might, to the trained eye, look like a bird.

 

“I know,” she says. “I'm sitting next to it.”

 

He punches her arm, and she smiles. “I'm sorry for being an insensitive pervert,” he says. “I'll try not to do it anymore.”

 

“I'm sorry for being a violent drama queen,” Tara says. “I'll do my best to reduce--”

 

“You can ditch the violence and the drama, but I absolutely respect it if you aren't stepping down from the throne,” Gar says.

 

Tara actually laughs at that one. “I'm not planning to,” she says. “Without me in charge, the city's gonna crumble.”

 

“Heck, the whole world is gonna fall to pieces,” Gar says. “Imagine the headline: 'Tara Markov Stops Telling People When They're Being Stupid: Everything is on Fire and We're Sorry.'”

 

“That sounds like the opening crawl to a _Star Wars_ movie.”

 

“No, it doesn't,” Gar says. “They've got a really specific aesthetic.”

 

Tara blows a raspberry. “It's all the same. Yellow text, dramatic wording, et. cetera.”

 

“You have no appreciation for the arts.”

 

“Look, I'm just saying that if somebody's hand gets cut off, there's blood. If there's no blood, you're lying to public.”

 

“The lightsaber cauterized it,” Gar says.

 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I'm more of a horror gal anyway.” The blot in the distance suddenly speeds up and lifts off. It was a bird after all.

 

“If we're gonna talk about a lack of realism,” Gar starts, looking flushed.

 

“I'm just _saying_ , at least when people get their hands cut off in horror movies--”

 

“That stuff's basically just torture porn anyway!”

 

“ _You're_ basically just torture porn!”

 

“That makes no sense!” Gar says. “That's so stupid.” He's smiling widely. “I knew it.”

 

“Knew what?” Tara asks suspiciously.

 

“You act all tough, but you're just as much of a dork as the rest of us,” Gar says.

 

“Wait, you guys know that you're dorks?” Tara asks. Oops. That came out wrong. Now he's gonna be mad.

 

Instead, Gar nods emphatically. “Vic and I know. Dick knows. Kory knows, and Donna has half acknowledged it. The only one who needs convincing at this point is Raven, and even she knows deep in her cold heart that--”

 

“What's your definition of 'dork?'” Tara asks.

 

“We get fast food in-costume, sometimes, because sometimes people rob banks before lunchtime and everyone's hungry afterwards.”

 

“Ah.” Tara pauses. “I never did that, though.”

 

“But you got really worked up because I insulted a film genre you liked.”

 

“Yeah...”

 

Was that genuine, though? Tara likes horror movies (she's seen some on her days off) but is she passionate enough about them to react as dramatically as she did? Tara's a good actress. She's been method-acting as a dumb teenage superhero for a while now, so it would make sense if she's starting to act like one unconsciously. In that case, Tara's not _actually_ a dork, whether that's a good thing or not, and instead she must be--

 

“Hey. Heyyy. You listening? I said that the sunset looks nice.”

 

“Like blood splatters from a horror movie,” Tara says, leaning into her previous bit.

 

“Nerd.”

 

Yeah, nerd. That's right. Tara's going to pretend to be awkward and lovable. She nods.

 

“Hey, Tara,” Gar says.

 

“Hey, Gar,” she responds.

 

“I've been lousy about it, but the truth is, I actually do like you.” He's blushing, and staring at the water. Tara doesn't really know what to say.

 

“'Like,' as in..?” She knows what he means. She just wants to erase any uncertainty.

 

“'Like' as in this.” He leans over and his lips _almost_ touch hers but before he's reached that point she's cussed him out and shoved him into the lake.

 

She has the reflexes of a master assassin.

 

“Sorry,” he says after spitting out a mouthful of algae. “Can I at least sit next to you on the drive home?”

 

“Sure,” Tara says, rolling her eyes. “If eating that pond scum makes you sick, though, keep your distance. I don't want you puking on me.”

 

Gar nods apologetically. “I've eaten it before. It gets in your mouth when you're a beaver. I haven't thrown up on anyone.”

 

“Go build a dam,” Tara says. She's trying to be stern, but she can't stop herself from smiling a little.

 

“Will do, your majesty,” Gar says. He flips forward and splashes her a little with his tail before swimming off to do beaver things.

 

Tara realizes there's pine sap on her jeans. That'll take forever to get out.

 

The anticipation of stress brought on by pine sap is an easy explanation for the heavy feeling in her chest. It doesn't really matter if being a dork is a good or a bad thing, because in the end it's not about good and bad. It's about money and who's in control of who.

  
Tara's learned a weakness, even if it's stupid. Waterfalls make Gar upset. Somehow, maybe, she can use that against him. She'll figure out what upsets everyone, and she'll wage psychological warfare on them. Every time she talks to them, she gets closer to beating them. She has no reason to start adopting their values and feeling guilty. She's not that easy to brainwash.

 

The loon is back, and even though it's far off and blurry, Tara can still make out its silhouette.

 

The sound loons make is really sad to people, even if it isn't sad to loons.

\---

Everybody's sweaty and disgusting when they get home, but Tara isn't actually thinking about that. As soon as they're in the main ops, everybody collapses in various positions and passes out. Even Tara winds up getting caught in the zeitgeist, and when she wakes up, it's already dark out.

 

Gar is sprawled awkwardly across Vic, and Donna is face-down on one of the sofas with one arm hanging off. Kory and Dick are locked together in a mutual death-grip, but that doesn't seem to have woken either of them up. Raven is off to the side, curled up next to the air conditioner. It seems that Tara is the only person awake.

 

She realizes it's Saturday, and, instead of heading back to the compound as soon as possible, she's napped for six hours. Should she lie about it? Of course, Tara's excuse could be that she needed to wait for everyone to be asleep. That's a good excuse. She'll use that one, if he asks.

 

She kind of wants to put off whatever discussion Slade has prepared for her. She's tired, and she's worried that it's going to be serious and urgent. She can't handle either of those things right now. She just spent a week in the woods pretending to have fun with six overgrown babies.

 

All the same, she grabs her backpack, jumps out the window, lands on her rock, and heads off to do her job.

\---

The first thing she does is shower, because she's basically a slime person. She feels at home enough in the compound to just burst in unannounced and use the facilities (come to think of it, she feels the same way about the Tower at this point. What does that mean?). Unfortunately, all that's in her backpack is a box of crackers and some items she'd borrowed from the Tower before (she always makes a point of stocking up whenever things are left lying around carelessly, since you never know when you'll need a t-shirt or a can of tuna).

 

Luckily, one of her borrowed Tower items is Kory's bathrobe, which is dark pink and has ugly flowers printed all over it. Somehow, Kory manages to look pretty in it (she has the confidence to make it work), but Tara only puts it on because her clothes smell like camping and she doesn't want to wear them any longer than necessary.

 

Eventually, she has to talk to him. He lets her into his room, and she slouches onto the sofa almost immediately. He wants to know how things went, so she tells him: Dick is actually incredibly rich, he's a total slave-driver when it comes to team bonding, and Gar tried to kiss her. She leaves out some important details: she does not tell him that she dreamed that he became a swarm of ants and ate her alive, and she does not tell him that she lost her shit and nearly killed Gar for getting too touchy.

 

“I mean, he said he was sorry when he realized I was actually upset,” Tara admits. There's not any bad blood between them at this point. “Then we, uh, sat under a pine tree and talked about movies, and when I got up there was sap on my pants, and I still haven't gotten it out.” Slade is giving her a look that she doesn't like. She's not sure what kind of look it is, but she definitely doesn't like it. Maybe she's talking too much. She decides to wrap up her story as quickly as she can. “And for some reason he thought it would be okay to try and kiss me and he moved right up and I shoved him away and said, 'fuck off!'”

 

Slade keeps on giving her that look. He seems... disgusted isn't the right word, but it's somewhere in that family. His gaze itches. Maybe he's mad at her for almost kissing someone else. That would make sense. Nobody likes it when their... their something starts running around with other people. It leads to all kinds of gross and complicated situations _(doesn't it, Papa?)._

 

“You should have let him,” Slade says bluntly. Tara's stomach flips. That was the opposite of what she thought he was going to say.

 

“Are you kidding me? He ruined my dirtball! I wasn't about to, like, reward him for it!” Tara shakes her head for emphasis. She's not even going to mention the obvious.

 

Suddenly, he's looming over her, all big and adult and inescapable. Unconsciously, Tara pulls her knees up a little, ready to curl up and hide behind them if necessary (as if that's ever worked). “If you keep acting hostile,” Slade says, quietly. “They are going to stop trusting you. If this is going to work, they have to trust you.”

 

“But--” Tara is certain that Gar likes and trusts her more than he did before they talked Just because she wasn't going to let him do whatever doesn't mean that she was being hostile. Just because she fractured his leg doesn't mean that--

 

“It seems I haven't been clear enough,” Slade says, leaning even closer, resting his hands on both sides of her (blocking her escape routes). She can feel body heat. “I am ordering you to do whatever it takes to get and maintain that trust. If that means--”

 

“We--” _I did get his trust! We talked and joked around! We--_

 

“If that means you let the little green kid kiss you, then you let him kiss you.” Tara nods, helplessly. “If he says he likes you, then you say you like him.” Of course. Of course. Anything else would be dumb. “And if that means he wants to touch your breasts, or fuck you, or--” _What?_ “Weep onto your shoulder about how dead his family is, then you are going to let him do all those things.” They're so close now that they're almost touching, but not quite. Tara suddenly realizes where her escape route is.

 

She leans up and kisses Slade, hard, flings an arm over his shoulder to support herself. His goatee scratches. With her free hand, she reaches for his belt. When they did this, it stopped any and all conversation that was going on. If they do it again, he won't be mad at her anymore, he'll tell her she did a good job again, she can go home to the Tower and--

 

He pushes her back and steps away. He's looking at her like something he just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. She wants to curl up into a ball and pretend she's not here, but that would be so stupid, so stupid, so _stupid._

 

She doesn't get to fuck him into shutting up. That's not her job. Her job is to become stronger, and take contracts, and spy on the Titans, and... something.

 

“What am I?” she asks, because for some reason, that seems like the right question.

 

He doesn't answer. He tells her to leave, and to remember to wear her contacts in the future. She pulls them out of her pocket and puts them in right in front of him, hoping for some kind of affirmation. She doesn't get any.

\---

Tara doesn't fly straight home. She lifts off and spends a while high above the city, watching the headlights of cars and the flashing neon signs. She knows that she won't sleep, so she spends the rest of the night wandering around and above and through the city. She gets a few odd looks, because she's wandering around in her bare feet and her bathrobe, but she doesn't care. Someone yells “take it off!” and she doesn't even bother flipping them off. What does it matter what these idiots think? She can't believe that she used to be so afraid of these people.

 

She's outgrown those childish fears, and now she's afraid the way adults are afraid, she thinks.

 

It's morning when she arrives at the Tower. Dick is sitting on her outcropping by the vents. He doesn't comment on her appearance, even though she's certain that her feet are dirty and her hair is flying in all directions. He just waves at her, smiling, like a dog greeting its master.

 

Dick's her bitch. All the Titans are her bitches. Yeah.

 

“How'd the rest of your recovery day go?” Tara asks, dropping her rock into the ocean.

 

“I feel hungover,” Dick says.

 

“That'll happen when you throw off your sleep schedule and eat nothing but hot dogs and marshmallows for a week,” Tara says, settling onto the ground next to him. “Also, I didn't think you knew what a hangover was.”

 

Dick splutters for a second before shrugging. “I made plenty of mistakes in high school. Donna can attest to that. She drove me home after Wally's sixteenth birthday party. He has a really fast metabolism, and I was trying to keep up, and it went badly.”

 

“Underage drinking, running off to live on your own, taking off your clothes in front of people...” Tara smirks. “You're actually kind of a rebel, aren't you?”

 

“I guess,” Dick says. “But Donna's been there to help me clean up my messes every time.” He smiles a little sadly. “I was brooding a little before you showed up. I still want to keep her, even though we're grown up now. Pretty childish for a rebel, huh?”

 

“You wouldn't know childish if it kicked you in the balls, you old coot,” Tara says. There's not much malice behind it. “It's normal to want to keep people you care about.”

 

They're quiet for a second after that. There are a lot of seagulls out today, and their voices are overlapping. Tara knows that people hate them and call them flying rats and such, but she thinks they're pretty. She can fly on her rocks, but she wonders what it would be like to hold her arms out straight, and have her arms hold _her_ in response.

 

“What did you do with your recovery day?” Dick asks.

 

 _Tried to fuck Deathstroke so that he'd stop being scary at me, failed dramatically, and wandered around the city in a bathrobe until dawn,_ Tara almost says. Instead, she says, “I found a wedding so I pretended to be a relative.”

 

“Dressed like that?”

 

“I can do a really heavy Slovak accent. I pretended that I didn't know what the rules were. I told the bride's family that I was related to the groom, and the groom's family that I was related to the bride. I got to throw rice.”

 

“I didn't know you could do accents. That could be useful,” Dick says. He stands and brushes off his pants. “We should go inside.”

 

“Just that one.” Tara joins him, and they walk around the building to the main entrance. “Slovak's my second language. Did you know that wedding cake doesn't taste as good as it looks?”

 

“They just didn't choose the right bakery. Don't steal,” Dick says, gently tapping her head with his fist as they wait for the elevator.

 

“I'm a rascal,” Tara says. “I'll try to follow your bible school rules, though. I'm guessing that Donna and Terry are picking a good bakery for their cake, if you know where to go.”

 

“Yeah,” Dick says. He slouches a little. He must really hate that Donna's getting married.

 

“Are you jealous of Terry?” Of course, nobody likes it when their _somethings_ run around with other people, but Dick and Kory are together. This is a... complicated situation.

 

“Only because he's taking up her time,” Dick replies, and he seems honest. “Maybe if we'd grown up differently I'd love her _that_ way, but she's just a very dear friend.”

 

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. Suddenly, something cruel clicks in Tara's head. Loving somebody this way or that way, kissing them or fucking them for whatever reason. None of it makes any sense, and Slade just wants her to sit in the dark. He thinks that he's the only person she can speak to about this stuff. She's wearing her lenses. She'll give him a show, and see what he thinks of her after that.

 

They step inside, and the doors slide shut. Dick hums quietly. Tara thinks that it's the theme song from an old TV show, but she's not sure.

 

“Hey,” Tara says quietly, sadistically. “Tell me about love.”

 

Dick jumps a little, and looks at her with wide eyes. Tara had lied to him before. He's absolutely childish. “Do you mean what kinds of love there are?” he asks, blushing a little. “Because, uh, Plato said--”

 

“Tell me about sex,” Tara says, lacing her fingers together and gazing up at him. So pretty, so stupid. “Do people--”

 

Dick steps back, away from her, shaking his head. “Whoah. Maybe you should talk to one of the other girls about this?” His ears are red. She's embarrassed him. Good. How does he feel right now? Does he feel like he's the boss of his own life? Does he-- “It seems inappropriate for me to give you that talk.”

 

“Do people only have sex when they're in love?” Tara asks, tilting her head innocently as she closes in on him. “And if you're in love with someone, do you always have to have sex with them?”

 

“Is this about Gar?” Dick asks, not making eye contact with her. Tara steps a little closer. He's miserable, isn't he? Or... is he turned on? After all, she has him cornered in the elevator and is talking about pretty lewd stuff (bird-eating spider, definitely).

 

What would Slade think if she fucked Dick? Would he think that was okay, or is she only allowed to go after boys if he gives her permission?

 

She realizes that she's been silent for a few seconds. “Yes,” she says. “It's about Gar.” She's not going to try and seduce Dick in the elevator. That would be stupid. But if she did... What would Slade's face look like?

 

“You guys are a little young to be thinking about that, aren't you?” Dick asks, and she wants to tease him because he's an idiot and she hates him for having such an innocent approach to things and what would Slade think if she just grabbed this stupid pretty boy and--

 

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. Tara immediately slips to the side so she's standing at an appropriate, professional distance.

 

“Dick!” Kory says, looking up from the gardening catalog she'd been reading. “How was your brooding time?”

 

“It was-- I did a lot of brooding,” Dick says. He gives Tara a worried glance before stepping out into the main ops, and Kory tackles him into a hug. He laughs and she hovers a little bit and kisses him on the forehead. He smiles at her brightly, and she grabs his hand and goes to show him her catalog.

 

Tara doesn't actually want to fuck Dick Grayson in an elevator, she decides as she watches them sit close together on the long couch. She just wants to piss Slade off. She's probably done enough already.

 

Maybe she should reconsider her priorities.

\---

Tara found the book in the basement, which is where the Titans seem to stow away all the things they want to keep but don't want to actually _have._ She has to wade through a lot of outgrown and outdated costume parts, broken gadgets, and grocery receipts before getting to the bookshelf, where Donna had recommended she look (“Why, though?” Donna had asked. “There are much simpler psychological theories out there. One of the other professors at Terry's university--”)

 

She'd made a point of taking it to her jagged cliff and spending some alone time with it, because Raven was the one who said she should read it. Raven is the book person.

 

The writings of Carl Gustav Jung are fucking useless.

 

Apparently, the book is a collection of lectures translated from German. The text is completely useless: rambling diatribes about mandalas and primitive peoples and Greek gods. Everyone's a child or androgynous or digging up pottery wheels, and none of it has anything to do with anything else. She tries checking the index, but that just brings her more nonsense: worms, running, and the element of devouring. None of the dreams mentioned are anything like hers, and none of the explanations are relevant to her.

 

She wants to throw the book into the ocean (which is the collective unconscious, with unfathomable depths).

 

Maybe she was just having a fucking dream about worms and running and being eaten by things (Ever consider that, Raven?). Dreams don't have to mean things. Tara was stressed out. Stupid. Navel gazing never did anyone any good. It was a bad idea to even try this in the first place.

 

_(Ravens are often associated with messengers, such as Mercury. In Norse mythology, the ravens Huginn and Muninn sit on Odin's shoulders and relay him information from all over the human world. Birds in general are associated with the soul and transcendence. These are all important things to know.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^^ An Illustration ^^  
> (drawn in class, colored in SAI, entirely irrelevant, remember to always follow Duck Dude's orders if you want to survive)
> 
> The exact edition of CG Jung's "On Dreams" that Tara was reading was printed in 1974. The bit at the very end was paraphrased from various bits of "Man and His Symbols," which is also very confusing.
> 
> Basically everything Jung wrote ever is very confusing. You can't just dive headfirst into Carl, baby. Ya gotta wear your waterwings (annotations and knowledge of mythology, archaeology, and popular psychoanalytic theory during Jung's lifetime). I love my Carl but he is a Nonsense Bastard.
> 
> As a note, the "community theater" scene from NRFS, and the following sexual assault, are coming up in the next chapter. I want to be delicate with it, but it's kind of how the story progresses. I wrote the original mostly as a kind of cathartic "let's make me, ao3 user shieldings, uncomfortable today" thing, but since the story's turned into a lot more, I'm not quite sure what to do, especially since this is the longest, most detailed part yet. Any suggestions for how I should handle it? Reader input of any kind is always appreciated.
> 
>  **Up Next:** Lots of talk about love and weddings. Someone shows off (which is a bad idea, always). A stupid girl wades through a haze.


	6. Community Theater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna wants to play "big sister."
> 
> Something goes horribly wrong.
> 
> Mannequin thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the tags and warnings because HOO BOY HOWDY
> 
> Okay, so a significant portion of this chapter was written in Depression Mode (tm) which basically means I went 24 hours without eating or drinking or showering or talking to people and just typed and felt bad so I'm sorry if there is a strong Depression Mode aftertaste. I tend to do that when I write difficult content ^^". The day after that (which is today/yesterday because it's midnight) I did in fact eat some food so good job me
> 
>  **LARGE VERY LARGE TRIGGER WARNING:** This chapter has a non-graphic rape scene, followed by some very bad gaslighting. I've closed it off by framing it with two pieces of "discovered literature," because idk what I'm doing with my life anymore. Basically, if you're not in the right place to handle that today, read up to "ids poem," skip what's in between, and then find "dead bluejay iambic pentemeter."
> 
> Those are a change in formatting, so they should be easy to find with quick scrolling. There is discussion of the situation for the rest of the chapter.
> 
> On a positive note, Tara does get super dopey on healing magic and thinks that "mental plaque" is hilarious.

Tara's got a list of things she needs to stop doing, courtesy of a slip of paper Slade must have left in her bag at some point.  She realizes with a sort of anxious swoop in her stomach that she probably got the slip before she went camping with everyone, and therefore is behind on things.  Luckily, the next time she sees him, she’ll be faking a fight with him and he probably won’t notice if she hasn’t gone through any serious changes.

 

The things she needs to stop doing are, in order: nail-biting, hiding from the press, swearing, and sitting with her legs far apart.  All of these are fairly deeply ingrained habits, so she's going to have to work hard to make it look like she's been trying to change for longer.

 

She decides that the best person to talk to about this would be Donna, because Donna strikes her as the most normal of the Titans (excluding Vic, but Tara keeps getting hostile vibes from him.  She’s not sure why).  She might ask Dick, but she feels like it might be a good idea to keep her distance from him for a while.  In the elevator, she got him good and confused, and if she’s too friendly now, he might calm down.  She’s not going to let him recover that easily.

 

Donna is reading an adventure novel on the roof, and seems to be pretty absorbed in it.  Tara announces her presence with a loud cough, and Donna looks up.  Tara smiles and waves in what she hopes is a genuine, open way.

 

“Hi,” Donna says, pulling a pin from her hair and slipping it into her novel as an impromptu bookmark.  “Is everything okay?”

 

“Super okay,” Tara says.  “I wanted to ask your advice.”

 

Donna stiffens.  Did Dick tell her about the elevator encounter?  Dick probably told Donna about the elevator encounter.  They’re like conjoined twins.  Or maybe he told Kory because he was feeling guilty, and then Kory told Donna.  Or maybe…  There’s an infinite number of theories for Tara to brood over, but she’s trying to talk to someone.

 

“I wanted to ask your advice about kicking some bad habits,” Tara says.

 

“Oh, sure,” Donna says.  She’s visibly relieved.  Did she think Tara was going to start creeping up on her, too?  Rude.  Tara recognizes that she can be overbearing, but she’s not some kind of lesbian sex pervert.  “What’s the problem?”

 

 “I’ve got personal stuff, and public-image stuff,” Tara says.  “I’m basically a bunch of bad habits standing on top of each other in a trenchcoat.”

 

Donna laughs.  “That’s harsh.  What are they?”

 

“Uh, I bite my nails and I’m bad with cameras.  Also, trying to stop swearing.”  Tara nods decisively.  She’s not going to mention the sitting thing, since there’s probably no help Donna can actually give her with that (besides just following her around and scolding her every time she sits down).

 

Donna thinks for a second, fidgets with a bit of her hair.  “I’m not sure what to do about the swearing, but getting used to cameras is just about practice.  I can help with that, if you want.  We can do some mock interviews.  Vic had to do them when he joined, too.”

 

“Wait, was he shy or something?”  Tara can’t really imagine Vic trying to hide.  He’s _big_.  He could probably cover his face and shuffle away, but he’s got too much of a presence to just skulk off like she usually does.

 

“He was snippy.  I mean, the interviewers were pretty rude…”  Donna averts her eyes.  “But it’s not good for the team’s image if one of us is openly hostile.  Dick and I gave him some media training, and he’s better now, but the TV people still get on his nerves.  He’s just better at hiding it now.”

 

“Exactly how rude were they?” Tara asks.

 

“Well, they kind of jumped on him as soon as he was out of the hospital, because the whole robot thing is so rare, and they kept on asking personal questions.  About the replacement parts.”  Donna looks uncomfortable.  Maybe Tara should deescalate.  “There was some race stuff, too.  Nothing blatant, but, uh, you know how people are sometimes.”

 

Tara doesn’t really know, but she nods anyway.  “So, you just did a bunch of mock interviews?  That doesn’t sound too bad.”

 

“It was worst-case scenario stuff,” Donna says.  “Dick and I took turns startling him and trying to get him to make statements, and he had to memorize some stock responses to get away without causing media trouble.”  She looks almost nostalgic now.  “I’ll ask Dick to help with yours too, if you want.  One time, he just dropped down from the ceiling and started asking if having robot feet would disqualify someone for a football scholarship.”

 

“Would they?”

 

“Yes.  Also, try painting your fingernails,” Donna says, opening her book again.

 

“What?”

 

“For the nail-biting,” Donna says.  She smiles.  “If you put effort into making your nails look nice, it’s less tempting to mess them up.  Also, nail polish tastes weird, so you notice when you start doing it.”

 

“Thank—thank you,” Tara says.  Donna’s smile is so sweet and earnest.  What would her face look like if she knew why Tara was asking her for advice?  No, that doesn’t matter.  What matters is that this is bonding.  Tara’s going to get under Donna’s skin, too.  If Donna likes giving advice and playing big sister, Tara can play at being a little sister.  She’s done it before.

\---

“Robot penis,” Gar whispers later when Tara offhandedly mentions the conversation with Donna.  “They kept on asking if he had a robot penis.”

 

“Does he have one?”

 

“You try asking him.”

\---

Slade wants to talk.  He somehow sends the message right into her contact lens while she’s sitting on the counter eating the half-sandwich somebody had left in the fridge.  She nearly falls over.  Tara hadn’t known the lenses could do that, but the words just pop into her line of vision one-by-one: _“Tonight.  23:00.  Where?”_   It’s unscheduled, and that makes Tara nervous.  Either something big has happened that she doesn’t know about, or he’s mad at her.  Her instincts lean towards “angry” but she wants to stay positive.

 

“My cave,” she says, because it’s the first place that pops into her mind.  “See you then.”  She pops the lenses out and holds them in her fist.  She shoves past a concerned-looking Kory on her way to her room, where she locks the lenses away in their case, and then tucks the case into a sock and under her pillow for good measure.  She feels intruded-upon.

\---

She hops onto a rock at 10:30, so she arrives at 11:00.  It would have taken a lot longer on foot.  As expected, he’s waiting for her at the cave, mask and all.

 

She lands neatly and hops to the ground.  Just as she’s about to greet him, he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her deeper into the cave, so that they’re covered by the shadows.

 

“What the hell were you doing?” he asks.  She looks at his hand on her wrist, at his unreadable mask, then at his hand again.  He lets go.  What the hell _was_ she doing?  What offensive things has she done since seeing him?  She talked about painting her nails.  She checks them.  They look good.  Orange is a good color for nails.  That’s off-topic.  She talked about… she talked about robot penises, but that was like five words.  She spoke to Dick about-- oh.

 

“Asking the team leader for advice,” she says casually, looking up from her nails.  “I’m young and in love with Gar Logan, remember?”

 

“You knew I was watching,” Slade says, and she’s really glad she can’t see his face, because it’s probably pretty scary right now, and she’s not going to break character that easily.  “Was that supposed to be some kind of statement?”

 

Tara grins, and she knows it’s charming.  “Dick’s going to tell Kory, and Kory’s going to tell Donna.  All three of them will agonize about it for a while, and I’ll flirt with Gar a little bit to make it worse.  It’s all just a game,” she says, shrugging.  “Hey,” she adds, as a test.  “Gimme a cigarette.”

 

He gives her one, and she relaxes slightly.  If he’s not going to scold her for being rude, he can’t be _that_ angry at her.  She lights it and takes a long drag. 

 

“The next time I see you, we’re going to be fighting, right?” she asks.  “You’re going to kidnap a politician or something.”

 

“TV news anchor,” Slade corrects.  Of course.  A politician would be way too dramatic.  “I want you to look nice and heroic for the public, all right?”

 

“I’ll be the cutest fucking thing they’ve ever seen,” she says.

 

They’re silent for a while.  It’s November, and the stars are shining fiercely through the cave entrance.  It seems like the cold encourages them, somehow.  For some reason, Tara wonders if Kory’s home planet is orbiting any of those stars.  Probably not.  Either way, it doesn’t matter to her.  She notices that Slade’s taken off his mask.  It must have been stuffy.  He’s a person, after all.  He gets uncomfortable too.

 

“They’re really starting to like you, you know,” he says.  “You’re doing a good job.”

 

Tara’s heart flutters.  “It’s not hard,” she says.  “They’ll trust anyone who smiles at them.”

 

“Don’t undersell yourself.”  Slade puts a hand on her shoulder.  “You’re a natural at this.”  He pauses for a second, and his expression hardens slightly.  “It’s still obvious that you’re not trying that hard.”

 

Her stomach drops.  “What do you mean?” she asks.  “You said it yourself.  I’ve got them wrapped around my finger.”

 

“Raven and Cyborg.  You’ve made hardly any effort to reach out to either of them.”  Slade’s grip on her shoulder tightens.  “If anything, you’ve been hostile.”

 

“Not _hostile_ ,” Tara insists.  “I just haven’t gotten around to them yet, that’s all.  Anyway, why wouldn’t they like me?”

 

“Raven doesn’t trust you in the first place, and Cyborg doesn’t want you elbowing in on his relationship with Changeling.”

 

“I’m getting better with Raven,” Tara says weakly.  “We’ve been talking sometimes.  She’s just kind of creepy, so…  You know, right?”

 

“I don’t.  And if anything, Cyborg likes you less than he did when you joined.”

 

“Because Gar has a thing for me.”

 

“You’re an interloper, and they had a stable friendship.  Unless you get him to like you, the Titans won’t accept you as one of them.”

 

Tara snaps her fingers.  “Yoko Ono.  I’m Yoko-ing their friendship.”

 

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Slade says.  His grip loosens.  “Try harder.  When we fight, go all-out.  Make a show for them.”

 

“I will.”

 

They’re silent a little while longer.  Tara thinks about Raven and Cyborg.  Maybe Cyborg doesn’t like her, but Raven…  She shouldn’t tell Slade about the things Raven can do with dreams and feelings.  She shouldn’t tell him that he was her bad dream, and she definitely shouldn’t tell him about the ocean Raven showed her on that night.  She shouldn’t have needed the ocean, and dreams are just dreams.

 

She finishes her cigarette.  “Should we leave?” she asks.

\---

They don’t leave.

\---

They end up screwing in his car, and it’s a slightly less terrifying experience than the other time, if only because it’s not as shocking.  The car is cramped and she feels like she’s nothing but elbows and knees, but this time she kisses back and is even able to enjoy it a little.  She doesn’t even panic after it’s over, even though there’s still blood and she still hates that damn gash between her legs.

 

After all, it’s not as if she’s scared of Slade.  He’s her mentor and her partner and probably, at this point, it would be fair to call him her lover.  They’re similar people, and they get along because of that.

 

“Hey,” she says into his shoulder.  “Do you think a lot about fairy tales?”

 

“Not really,” he says.

 

“Little Red Riding Hood,” Tara says.  “It’s so scary, but they read it to little kids.”

 

“Are you calling me a big bad wolf?” Slade says, and she can hear the smile in his voice.  “I’m sorry I lured you away from the righteous path.”

 

She snorts.  “I’d have lured myself off.  Why do they let kids read stories where characters get eaten alive?  I bet that causes nightmares.  Just because someone swoops in to make everything better on the last page…  that doesn’t make it a happy story.”

 

“In the first version of the story, that last page wasn’t there.  Little Red Riding Hood stayed dead.”

 

For some reason, her stomach lurches.  “I guess not all stories have happy endings.”

 

“It was a happy ending for the wolf.”

 

Tara laughs.

\--- 

Tara has an epiphany about books and reading.

 

If you take a book and tear out the right pages, you can rewrite any story without even having to try.  If you skip the parts you don’t like, you can always have a happy ending.  If you believe hard enough, you can take a marker and you can bind wounds and clothe the naked and silence any hateful words just by scribbling madly on the paper.

 

Or, you know.  You can draw dicks inside it and then give it back to the library and nobody will know any better.

\---

Personal funds are running low.  It’s been a while since Tara’s taken or participated in a contract besides this one, and it turns out that superheroing is volunteer work.  She’d kind of hoped that the Justice League or some other group of responsible adults was giving everyone allowances, but Dick’s a fan of self-reliance, which apparently means not mooching and never asking for help.

 

Of course, she’s got her basic food and housing costs covered.  Someone (to be honest, probably Dick’s dad) pays for groceries and plumbing, they have their own generator and solar panels, and everyone with a job chips in for other stuff, like gadget upkeep.  Keeping the tower running must be expensive, since it’s such a big building, but Tara figures that it’s just one of those things that shouldn’t be questioned.  She might jinx it.

\---

“Absolutely not,” Tara says.  She shakes her head for emphasis.  “You hardly even know me.”

 

“Please?” Donna asks.  “I’d really like everybody to participate in the wedding.  I’ve been a Titan for almost ten years.  I can’t imagine doing this without you.”

 

Tara crosses her arms.  “Well, I’ve been a Titan for five months, and I can’t imagine putting on a tacky dress and spending a whole day dealing with everyone’s relatives.”

 

Donna smiles slightly, but she quickly suppresses it.  “Do you really want to be home alone all day while everyone else gets a free buffet and live music?  Gar has connections, and I’m letting him plan the reception.”

 

“I’ll wind up at the end of the line for the buffet and all the good stuff will be gone by the time I get to it.  The music will be bad, but Dick’s going to want to dance with everyone, so that guarantees that I’m going to have to dance with at least one person.  Kory’s going to try to work in some of her weird space marriage stuff, and she’s going to scare--“

 

“We’ve already agreed to that part,” Donna says.  “Kory is performing the scarf ceremony at the reception.  Since she offered, I couldn’t let her down.”

 

“Well, Terry’s parents are going to freak out.”

 

“And how does that effect _you_?” Donna asks.  “I want you to be one of my bridesmaids because you’re my friend.  I like you, and I care about you, and it’s going to be an important day and I want you near me.”

 

“Well-- if that’s the-- first of all, fuck you,” Tara says.  Donna is unshaken.  Tara hopes she isn’t blushing, but considering her record, she probably is.  “I’m not going without some kind of reward,” she says.

 

“Reward.”

 

“Yeah,” Tara says, a scheme forming in her head.  “Like, how much do you want me to be there?  In numbers?”

 

“Numbers.”

 

“Think about it,” Tara says, nodding.  “I think that my participation value is somewhere in the twenties.”  She scrambles out of the main ops and into the elevator.  She hopes she’s managed to escape with at least a little dignity.

\---

_“Do you want to come?” Brion asked.  He was bouncing a little in his seat.  It was pretty obvious what answer he wanted._

_“No,” Tara said flatly.  “Not with that man.”_

_“You don’t have to talk to him.  You can just look at the birds.”_

_An eccentric ambassador from some South American country was visiting to discuss a trade deal with Viktor.  Gregor, of course, was tagging along to learn about economic negotiations.  Brion was tagging along because the ambassador had an entourage of Portuguese-speaking parrots of varying sizes, colors, and temperaments that he insisted follow him everywhere._

_After Tara had made Gregor cry in the hallway, their relationship had been tenuous at best.  When the family ate meals together (Tara hated that) Gregor stayed close to his mother and didn’t speak directly to Tara.  Tara didn’t mind this, because the only person she was willing to address was Brion.  All-in-all, the entire family dynamic was based around who was giving who the silent treatment at any given time._

_Anastacia, the queen, was admittedly a beautiful woman.  She had nothing on Mama, of course, but she had strong features and graying mahogany-brown hair.  She was clean and stern, and the lines on her face showed years of responsibility and stoicism.  That stoicism was what allowed her to sit at the same table as her husband’s dead mistress’s half-wild daughter without breaking down._

_Tara hated her.  But, of course, Tara hated everybody, so that wasn’t important._

_Either way, Tara didn’t want to go see the foreigner and his parrots.  What if they taught her Portuguese?  She was already trying desperately hard not to learn Slovak, and she didn’t want to add another language to her list of things not to learn._

_“Four bite, but two are tame,” Brion said.  “The other three are shy and will fly away if you try to bother them.”_

_“I don’t like those odds,” Tara said, crossing her arms._

_“They chatter if you pet their foreheads,” Brion said.  “But never their wings.  Also, Livia knows bad words and Hazelnut can do tricks.”_

_“Do you know_ all _their names?”_

_“Livia, Alexander, Caligula, Hazelnut, Isabella, Hadrian, Narcissus, Pipi, Greta.”_

_“Those are terrible names for birds,” Tara said.  “And how do you know this?”_

_“Gregor told me.  He said that Livia and Pipi are the tame ones.  Livia is small and green with bars on her feathers, and Pipi can’t talk, but is very large and pink.”_

_“Good to know,” Tara said.  She didn’t like the image of Gregor telling his little brother which birds are safe to pet.  It’s too nice.  She didn’t want to think of Gregor as somebody who could be nice, since he was willing to talk about her mother in such a cruel way._

_Tara tagged along anyway, just because Brion wanted her to.  She had to dress up nicely, with white tights and her hair pinned out of her eyes.  It felt unnatural, but what was natural about any of this?  She wasn’t not supposed to be here, even though she’d been there for more than a year.  She wasn’t supposed to care about Brion, and Gregor wasn’t allowed to be kind to anyone.  She hated it when she had to reframe things.  The story of the world was already complicated enough._

_The ambassador was a round man with voluminous hair and a purple suit.  Tara thought he looked ridiculous, but Viktor and Gregor were both completely solemn-faced when they greeted him.  What good liars._

_“He looks like a grape in a toupee,” Tara whispered to Brion.  He quickly covered his mouth but couldn’t totally suppress a weird sputtering noise that she decided was a new species of laugh._

_The parrots were all wearing harnesses and being carried by stiff-backed parrot-bearers.  Brion pointed them out one-by-one.  He even knew the names of some of the handlers, which she hadn’t expected.  They’d struck her as background noise._

_Tara didn’t understand a word of Portuguese, and neither did Brion.  Gregor was mostly silent, but every now and then he’d awkwardly interject a question and his father would smile._

_When Viktor wasn’t anxious, he had a kind smile._

_Awful.  How dare he?_

_“They’re talking about trendy shoes,” Tara whispered._

_“They aren’t,” Brion whispered._

_“How do you know?”_

_Brion just shook his head and pointed at one of the parrots.  It was tugging at its handler’s hair, but the woman was remaining completely still and quiet._

_“Why doesn’t she complain?” Tara asked._

_“Because nobody can stop Caligula.  He’s the problem child.”_

_“You’re a problem child.”_

_Brion stuck his tongue out at her._

_Viktor and the ambassador laughed at something, and Gregor smiled shyly._

_Tara watched the birds and thought a lot about hating people._

_\---_

Tara takes her mind off some bad thoughts by playing one of Gar’s computer games.  It’s stupid, but it’s hypnotic.  The music only has a few repeated notes, and for some reason half the objects on the screen are constantly flashing.  She knows that the premise is that she’s supposed to be some kind of miner, but she has no clue what kind of mine has penguins.  What’s she even mining for?  Aluminum?  Aluminum mines are profitable, right?  Who the fuck is Eugene?

 

Is the background music a beep-boop version of “Hall of the Mountain King?”  Is Eugene the Mountain King?  Maybe she underestimated--

 

 “Do you want Donna to pay you to be her bridesmaid?”  Tara spins her swivel chair around so fast that she nearly gets whiplash.  Raven is standing directly behind her, hands neatly folded and face unreadable.

 

“Shit, you need to stop sneaking up on people,” Tara says.  She’s been figured out.  What a pity. “Also, yeah. I think I can get at least twenty bucks out of her.”

 

“Why?”  Raven tilts her head.  Her long hair slides silkily off her shoulder, which is distracting.  Why is it distracting?

 

“I want twenty dollars,” Tara says, trying not to be distracted.  “Also, I hate crowds, and I think she's going to invite everyone in the damn JLA,” she adds, continuing to be distracted.

 

“She really wants you to,” Raven says. “I think it's important to her that all the Titans are involved with the wedding.”

 

“Well, maybe then she'll give me twenty dollars.”  Tara shrugs and grins. 

 

“What would you even spend it on?”

 

“Um, fruits and vegetables,” Tara says.  What does Raven like?  What would Raven consider a good use of money? “And history books.” Raven side-eyes her. “Good stuff!” Tara insists. “Really wholesome stuff!”  Definitely not cigarettes and teen magazines.

 

“Do the twenty dollars have to be from Donna?” Raven asks.

 

Tara stares at her. “Are you offering to pay me to go to Donna's wedding?” she asks.

 

“I might not be able to go.” Raven averts her eyes.  There’s a tinge of pink on her pale face.  It’s…  cute. “But I... It's important to her. Please don't spend the money on drugs or pornography,” she finishes, squeezing her eyes shut.

 

This is the most intensely emotional that Tara has ever seen Raven.  Raven is this emotional because of twenty dollars that she doesn’t want to be spent unwholesomely.  That’s either the cutest or the stupidest thing, but Tara can’t help laughing.  It takes her a while to stop.  She actually wheezes.  Raven just stares at her with mild concern until she manages to catch her breath.

 

“You'll probably have to wear a dress that she picks out,” Raven says, suddenly all business again. “But please don't be mean about it, even if you don't like it, because she'll think it's pretty.”

 

Tara wipes a tear from her eye and smiles. “Just for the thing you said about drugs and porn, I'll go. Damn.”

 

“In that case--”

 

“I still want my twenty bucks.”

 

Raven agrees to the deal.  Later that day, she hands Tara two fives, eight ones, and eight quarters.  Compiled pocket change.  For some reason, Tara feels a slight pang of guilt.  When contract clients pay, they usually either write up checks or give stacks of ironed-out twenties and fifties, depending on who they are and what they want.  Raven doesn’t even have a job, does she?  But she’s still paying. 

 

Tara takes the money anyway, and Raven nods solemnly at her.

 

Great.  Now Tara has to go to a wedding.

\---

“Why _aren’t_ we friends?” Tara asks.  It’s almost dawn.  That night, Tara hadn’t slept, and neither had Raven.  Their eyes had met several times as Tara nervously paced the halls of the building.  Eventually, they’d found each other on the roof, where it’s cold and damp and dawn-gray.  Tara sits on the very edge, where she can look down and make herself dizzy.  Raven sits a little further back, and stares up at the sky.

 

“You know why,” Raven answers.  She’s almost expressionless, but her eyebrows are lowered ever-so-slightly.  “You only want me to like you so that you can say that all the Titans do.  It's like you're trying to collect us.”

 

“Whoa, rude.”  Tara smiles tightly.  That was scarily insightful.  “I mean, I've been nice to you before, and you've been nice to me.  So, why do I keep getting such a murder-y feeling whenever you look at me?  I mean, we've got a lot in common.”  Tara swings her legs.  A cheap flip-flop escapes from her foot and flies off with the wind.

 

“As in?”  Raven is looking at her intensely.  Does Raven ever do anything that _isn’t_ intense?  It must be exhausting.

 

“Both grumpy, both have daddy issues,” Tara says carefully.  She’s already given the Titans a watered-down version of her backstory, and Raven can’t have a great relationship with her demon dad, so that should be harmless.  “Also, I move rocks.  You move rocks too, sometimes.  So, there's something, right?”

 

“Daddy issues.”  Raven looks at her quizzically.  Oh no.  Does Raven not know what daddy issues are?

 

“Yeah,” Tara says.  She smiles and nods, and hopes that she’s not visibly sweating.  “My mom was technically my dad's mistress, so I never knew him really well, and when we did meet, I think he just felt guilty.  His wife nearly had a heart attack when she found out about me.”  Tara tucks her knees up against her chest, almost unconsciously, and scoots backwards a little.  For some reason, now she’s not as comfortable right on the edge.  “And your dad's a demon, right?  How'd that happen?”  Tara keeps smiling, but she has a feeling that Raven’s not buying it.

 

“It's not something I like to talk about,” Raven says.  “He was never a father to me.”

 

“So.  Daddy issues,” Tara says.  It’s not like Viktor was much of a father to her either _(When did you start calling him “papa” to his face?)_.   “Can't we bond over that, at least?”

 

“I think that if that's your definition of 'daddy issues,' most of the other Titans have them, too.”

 

“And you're friends with them.  So why not me?”  Tara is stretching this weak attempt at relating so far now that she can almost feel her joints popping. 

 

“You're keeping a lot of secrets.  I can tell,” Raven says.  Now, there’s an edge of accusation in her voice.  “If you're not willing to open up to me, I'm not willing to open up to you.”

 

“I've got a list of things I can tell you, if what you want is a sad backstory,” Tara says.  What will it take?  How much is she going to have to say?  “I tell people my mom died in childbirth,” she says.  She takes a deep breath.  “But the truth is that she took too many sleeping pills.  I mean, I'm an insomniac too, so I like to tell myself it was an accident.”  Sorry, Mama.  You’re a tool now, too _(What does that imply?)._   “Let's see...  I have two older half-brothers.  I met them for a little bit, but I only got to know one of them.  He has powers too.  He's... so nice that it's grating.  Um, I ran away from home when I was twelve, and I've been living in the caves ever since.”   She's not going to push it.  “That's pretty much my whole life story, so will you please stop acting like I'm some kind of intruder?”

 

“Are any of those things actually secrets?” Raven asks.  “Or are they things you tell everybody, when you want them to feel sorry for you?”

 

 “They're true,” Tara says.  For some reason, Raven suggesting that she’s a liar hurts, even though she isn’t wrong.  “I guess the only one that's actually a secret is the one about my mom.” Raven keeps giving her that look, with the low eyebrows and the piercing stare.  What is someone supposed to do, when they’re being looked at like that, besides tell the truth?  “Also, I really like smoking cigarettes, but I don't when I'm around you guys, because I know that it's not legal to have them when you're underage.”

 

Raven considers this for a second, and apparently accepts it, since she stops attacking Tara with her eyes.  Her face softens a little.  “I like romance novels,” Raven says.

 

Unexpected.

 

“I know it's not the same, but I like the bad ones with the bare-chested men on the covers.  The stories are almost always similar, and it's comforting to know that they'll end happily,” Raven says.  Tara can see something at the corners of Raven’s mouth, a sort of warmness in her eyes.  She’s on the edge of smiling.

 

“You didn't strike me as the type.  I figured if you were gonna read romance it would be, um...” Tara pauses, tries to find the right word.  “Like, _Pride and Prejudice_?”

 

“Regency.”

 

“Yeah, regency.  Not the smutty stuff from grocery stores.  You seemed too intellectual.”

 

“I give off kind of a cold image.”  Raven smiles.  She _smiles_ and it’s like the man in the moon just winked because _damn_ that’s not something you see every day.  “But I'm still a person.”  Raven tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.  “People are silly sometimes.” 

 

“Even smart people need an outlet to be dumb, is what I'm hearing,” Tara says.  Right.  Dumb.  Raven’s dumb.  Raven’s the man in the moon-- woman in the moon-- no, she’s just the moon, or something.  No, no, that’s even worse.  Why would a person be the moon?  Tara hopes she doesn’t look as flustered as she feels.

 

“I still can't be your friend, you know,” Raven says.  She’s looking down now.  Her eyelashes are casting shadows on her cheeks in the strange morning light.

 

“I'll keep trying,” Tara says.  Someday soon, Raven will trust her.  That will be the day Tara breaks that trust, and that’s fine.  It’s business.

 

They're quiet for a while.

 

Raven is the moon.

 

She’s what makes the ocean tug at the shore.

\---

A key point to remember: bodies don’t have that much variety in their reactions.  Terra’s thinking about this at the TV station, because that’s really the only explanation she has for the thing her stomach is doing.  If she didn’t know any better, she’d assume that it was seeing Slade and the Titans in the same room that was giving her that weird dizzy feeling.

 

After all, being afraid and being excited feel a lot alike: either way, her heart races and her muscles tense, and either way she can feel every part of herself preparing for a massive release of energy.  Crushing anxiety and whatever the hell she’s feeling now must feel a lot alike.  Being scared and being excited both usually mean that something big is about to happen, whether it’s good or bad.  So all she needs to do is find the link between this emotion and what happens when she’s nervous: that is, what’s about to happen that is making her mouth dry and her forehead sweat and her instincts say, “curl up into a ball and die”?

 

Maybe it’s because she’s getting the sense that there should be two of her in this room right now: one with Deathstroke, and one with the Titans.  Two of her, duking it out like a pair of foul-mouthed, mentally unstable professional wrestlers.

 

Anyway, Terra A is cracking her knuckles and stretching and saying, “What the fuck’s with the holdup?” and Terra B is smirking at her and asking, “Why are you just standing there like an idiot?” and that’s the only thing that they agree on, so Terra gets to work.

 

Drama is the key here, just like it is in professional wrestling.  Luckily, Terra has plenty of experience in being dramatic.  She doesn’t quite have Dick’s wit or Kory’s natural cuteness, but she likes to think that she brings her own flare to the table, and that flare matches up pretty well with everyone else’s, because all the Titans are drama queens (except for Raven, who quietly moves an enormous pile of chairs and recording equipment without touching it, and blocks off the door without breaking a sweat).

 

Terra’s flare is dry-mouthed and overwhelmed, but she makes sure that nobody notices.  She’s a natural liar, after all.  Changeling bumps shoulders with her and she berates him affectionately.  Wonder Girl complements her for her improved control and precision.  Starfire smiles brightly at her, and none of them know what’s going on inside her head.

 

In the end, as planned, she and Deathstroke are solely targeting each other in one corner of the room.  Terra’s already subtly prepared an escape tunnel for him, and the only thing left to do is fight until he escapes.  She knows the rules: don’t underestimate the severity of the situation, don’t lose focus, and don’t hold back.

 

He’s out of ammo at this point, but the damaged brick walls and the cracks in the foundation have given her more than she needs.  Up close, though, it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that she’s able to dodge his blows and land her own, and she’s able to get up when she falls.  She doesn’t banter.  It’s not appropriate.

 

She’s not big enough to actually knock him over, but she’s strong enough to make him hurt.  She stops thinking about the plan.  The escape tunnel doesn’t matter at this point.  What matters is that her heart is pounding and she’s bitten her tongue hard enough to make it bleed, and that’s a wonderful feeling.  He hits her ribs and knocks the air out of her, and that’s _excellent._  

 

Things escalate.  She knows she’s wearing him down.  Everything else is background noise.  She spits blood out of her mouth and lunges.  He grabs her arm and throws her against the wall.  For a second, everything flashes white, but she doesn’t stop to reorient herself, because that’s what gets people killed.  Her arm hurts.  Her ribs hurt.  She’s swallowed some blood, and she hates it, but it’s funny, because…

 

Well, because it goes against nature.  It’s funny because it’s self-cannibalism, and you eat to stay alive, and other things die so you stay alive, so in a way, it’s dying to stay alive.  That makes no sense, and it’s funny.  Absurd is funny.

 

Caveman humor.  Primitive and violent.

 

Synchronized motion.  A solitary creature that’s fighting itself.  She can feel every part of herself: a heart that wants to break through her chest, ears that are ringing deafeningly, tingling extremities and a congealed stomach.  Their eight limbs are mirroring each other (bird-eating spider), and her teeth are gritted so hard that her jaw hurts.

 

She’s so _angry._

 

Someone nudges her, and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

 

“Hey,” Changeling says.  “What’s with the atmosphere in here?”

 

“Creep won’t back off,” Terra says loudly.  “Just surrender already!”  She takes a deep breath, tries to calm herself down.  Now that her focus has been broken, her vision is swimming.

 

“I’ll cover,” Changeling says quietly, and he steps forward.  “What have you got against public television?” he asks.

 

Terra doesn’t need anybody to cover for her.  She nudges Changeling and shakes her head.  She suddenly remembers that she has powers, and launches a rock at her opponent, knocking him backwards.  She rushes forward and kicks low, and he actually falls to the ground.

 

“He probably just wants attention,” she says.  “You could always join the community theater troupe, old man!” 

 

“Be serious,” Wonder Girl says from some uncalculatable distance.

 

Deathstroke stands, and Terra realizes that he’s about to leave through the tunnel.  She’s not going to let him get away that easily.  Not after… not after what, exactly?

 

She hits him in the middle of the back with a second rock—more accurately, a hunk of concrete from the ripped-up floor, but rock is rock, even if it’s a ground up compilation rock.  He’s face-down on the ground, and she can tell that that last blow hurt like hell.  Again, she feels a sort of aching satisfaction.  Who’s the strong one now?  Who is it that has to lie down and pretend that everything is going exactly as they’d planned?

 

“Maybe you’re too clumsy for theater,” Terra says, feeling a smirk forming on her face.  There’s still blood in her mouth.  It’s hilarious.

 

He rolls over to look at her, and her stomach lurches.  She realizes suddenly that she’s made a terrible mistake.  At the same time, she’s still grinning, and she’s still so angry, and everything is still hilarious.

 

She can feel hatred in his glare, and she knows he can feel hatred in hers.  It’s only a couple of seconds before he mysteriously disappears (thanks to Terra’s amazing tunnel abilities).  Changeling looks at her, stupefied, but she doesn’t have anything to say to him.  Her arms drop to her sides, and she stops thinking for a little while.

\---

Some woman with a microphone wants her to talk, so Terra talks.  She tucks her hair behind her ear, smiles sheepishly as though she’s some kind of innocent.

 

“I was a dumbass,” Terra explains.  “He, uh, said something that I didn't think he knew, and it threw me off, and then he escaped.”  There.  Short and sweet.

 

“Does the Terminator have compromising information about you or any other Teen Titans?” asks the woman.  Terra can see Changeling looking at her from the side with a confused expression.  Of course.  He was there, he knows she’s lying…  She’ll figure something out.

 

“No, no, nothing like that.”  Terra turns back to the microphone lady and shakes her head.  “About, um...  somebody I knew before I was a hero.”  She pauses, pretends to think something over.  “I screwed up.  I think I might have been projecting onto him a little.  I do love attention, after all.  I mean, look at me now!”

  
The microphone lady laughs.  It’s fake.  Terra does a lot of fake laughing, so she can tell.

 

Changeling looks a little worried, but he still puts an arm around her shoulder and smiles for the camera, and Terra is grateful for that.

\---

“It was a success,” Wonder Girl says.  “Nobody died, so it was a success.”

 

That’s a dumb definition of success, but Terra doesn’t really care.  Maybe it counts as a success for the Titans, but she’s made a terrible mistake, and she can’t run away from it.

 

“Terra, I never knew you were so powerful in hand-to-hand combat,” Starfire says, hovering a few inches off the ground.  They’re walking right down the sidewalk in full hero gear, and passers-by are gawking.  Terra doesn’t really care, and Starfire doesn’t seem to notice.  “Where did you learn those techniques?”  Starfire hovers a little closer.  Terra speeds up.

 

“Umm...  I learned from my brothers,” Terra lies.  “My older brothers didn't want anybody picking on me, so they taught me how to punch good.”

 

She tries to imagine Brion punching somebody.  She knows that he definitely punches people now, what with his superheroing career and all, but he was such a softie when they were kids.  Maybe he punches gently.

 

“I see,” Starfire says.  “I learned on Okaara, with my sister.  She was always better at hand-to-hand than I was, but it was still fun.”

 

“Yeah,” Terra says.  “Fun.”  She had fun.  She really enjoyed making Slade suffer back there.  What was she thinking?

 

“Your fighting style is surprisingly brutal,” Starfire says.  “Is that common where you come from?  To use the lower kicks to trip people?”

 

“Yeah,” Terra says.  Nothing wrong with fighting dirty if it’s going to save your life.  Nothing wrong with fighting dirty if it’s going to complete a contract.  She shouldn’t have fought dirty back there.  Stupid.

 

“I do not like to use those kinds of attacks,” Starfire says.  “However, your punching is so precise!  Can you show me some of your strategies later on?”  Now Starfire is right next to her again, smiling and sparkling and cute as ever.  It’s terrible.

 

“I mean, I guess,” Terra says.  “It's not that special.  It's just punching.  You've got way stronger arms than I do, so you probably don't need to--”

 

“I will show you arm exercises,” Starfire says, leaning in.  Terra leans out.  “And you will show me how you do the hard punching.”

 

“I can show both you ladies you all kinds of exercises,” Changeling says, wiggling his eyebrows.  Pervert.

 

“Your limbs are weak, and bad at hitting,” Starfire says.  Changeling turns into a chicken and escapes.

 

Terra wishes she were allowed to do that.

\---

 _“Compound.  Now.”_   Again, the sudden text flashing across her eye throws her off-balance in the middle of some pointless chore.

Stupidly, as though somehow it makes a difference, Tara covers her eye and stumbles out of the ops into the bathroom.

 

“I can’t,” she says into the mirror, shaking her head.  “Not now.  It’s still daytime, so I—”

 

_“You can’t run away from this.”_

“Dick wants to watch a movie, and tomorrow is booked.  Saturday is good.”

 

_“Don’t play games with me.”_

“Saturday,” Tara says, hoping that she doesn’t sound frightened.  “We’re supposed to meet on Saturday.  It’s just a couple of days.  Everyone’ll be on my ass if I go missing all of a sudden.”   She pauses for a second, then adds, “Gar wanted to take me and Vic out tomorrow.  All day.”

 

After a few breathless seconds, the response comes.  _“Saturday.  Don’t lie to me, Terra.”_

 

Tara sits quietly on the toilet for a few minutes after that.  She’d known before that she was screwed, but this is beyond screwed.  Why did she have to do that?  She’s controlled her emotions in much more stressful situations than the one at the TV station.  What happened?  Why did she…  why was she angry?  What did she hate so much?

 

She knows the answer, but it doesn’t make sense.  She has no reason to hate Slade, or be angry at him.  He’s literally the reason she is where she is today.  He’s been the most important person in the world to her for years, so why should that change now?

 

He’s not going to kill her, but he’s going to get pretty damn close to it.  He’s given her plenty of quiet warnings, and now she’s crossed an uncrossable boundary.  Tara’s seen what he can do.  Sure, she’s sparred with him, but what someone does in combat is different from what they do when they’ve cornered their prey.  Tara’s only ever been the predator, but she saw the look in her first victim’s eyes (he’d been mad at Smith, fucking Smith, about the merger, back when the world was young).

 

The only thing she can do is remain calm, because if she breaks, nobody’s going to put her back together.  The only person who even understands her enough to do that is Slade, and if he’s the one who breaks her, then she’s super fucked.

 

Someone knocks on the bathroom door.

 

Donna left her purse inside.

 

Life is terrible.

\---

Tara murders the hell out of the punching bag in the gym.

 

Dick talks to her, and she doesn’t really pay attention.  He says something about working at a convenience store even though his dad is rich, which is stupid.  What convenience store does he work at? 

 

Did he ever see Roderick there?  Back when he was stealing Twinkies?  Did he ever catch Roderick stealing Twinkies and tell him that young people should follow the law or else they’d wind up in trouble?

 

Roderick got in trouble.  He got so in trouble that he got shot.  Tara’s probably not going to get shot.  She should stop thinking about dead people.

\---

It’s already Saturday.  Tara’s trying her best to act like she always does:  She steals a mug from the kitchen and a thermos full of coffee, because she’s feeling cold even though it’s warm outside, and she wants to drink something hot, and she also wants to hole up somewhere were nobody will ever find her and there aren’t percolators in hidden chambers deep underground.

 

She takes one of Starfire’s sweaters out of the laundry room and puts it on.  It’s fluffy and pastel green with a bright yellow star on the front.  It’s kind of childish, but it’s pretty.  Starfire looks pretty in most things.  Why is Tara so cold?

 

Oh.  She forgot to eat today.  She’s not sure she’ll be able to stomach anything anyway.  Because _“Don’t lie to me, Terra._ ”

 

What’s she going to say?  She can’t exactly tell him that she went into a weird berserker frenzy and let, like, all her subconscious anger or something out on him.

 

That’s Freud, not Jung.  Tara read some Freud.  It was way simpler.  Why doesn’t Raven want her to read Freud?

 

Instead of ten billion primitive dream gods, there are three parts of the mind and two instincts, and that’s it.  Thanatos is the killing instinct, and Eros is the sex instinct, and those make up the Id, which is the animal part of the brain.  The Superego is what tells the Id to not fuck and/or kill everything, and the Ego is what keeps them from driving you crazy with all their fighting.

 

Tara can roll with that.  That makes sense.  No wonder Freud kicked Jung out.  The dude was trying to make a perfectly simple theory way too complicated.

 

She smokes four cigarettes, which is more than usual.  It’s usually one or two a day, tops, but she can’t get herself to calm down.  She knows that she’s making Starfire’s cute sweater smell like smoke, but who cares?

~~

**ids poem**

_(found by Richard John Grayson in his daily planner, written in pink glitter pen, xx84)_

_Eros and Thanatos sitting in a tree._

_F-U-C-K-I-N-- nope Thanatos doesn’t do that_

_K-I-L-L-- thats stupid why would Eros do that._

_They get married and have ugly babies_

~~

Writing poetry isn’t calming.

 

She fills up the rest of the space on the page with bad drawings of moths.

\---

It’s nighttime.  Survival strategy: play dumb, admit nothing.

\---

Tara is sitting on the couch in Slade’s room, clutching her coffee mug tightly.  It's not her mug.  It's Dick's mug.  The uncle mug, from when his friend won the custody battle.  Kory’s sweater has been stuffed clumsily into her bag, along with the thermos and two baggies of trail mix.  After a day of feeling too cold, Tara’s sweating like a pig.  Sweating like cheese.  Sweating like a sinner in church.  Sweating like--

 

“The extra rock,” Slade says.

 

“I think the public dug it,” Tara says, tilting her head innocently. “And you told me not to hold back.”

 

“You were enjoying it,” Slade says. “Why were you enjoying it?”

 

Shit.  Shit, shit.  He knows.

 

“I like fighting!” she says.  “I like training with you, I like fighting villains with the Titans! I even like it when they're able to smack me around a little. Reminds me I'm alive, ya know?” She grins, hopefully.

 

“You made a point of publicly humiliating me,” Slade says quietly. “Then you laughed about it.”

 

“Wait, did I, like, hurt your feelings?” Tara asks.  It’s time for a test.  Like the cigarette test.  She reaches for the bottle of whisky on the table next to the couch, impudently.  “I mean, sorry, I guess.”  She opens it and pours a little into her mug.  Slade says nothing, but he still looks pissed.  If he’s mad, why doesn’t he say something?  When he’s mad, he—

 

He grabs her arm, hard, and pulls her to her feet.  Dick’s mug shatters on the floor.  For some reason, Tara feels a jolt of guilt.  Slade twists her arm, and she makes eye contact.  If she looks scared, he’ll think she’s weak.  She can’t look scared.

 

“You like pain, then?” he asks quietly.

 

“Sorry,” Tara says, and it comes out flat.  “I won’t do it again.”  He twists her arm again, and she can feel the strain on her shoulder, but that’s not a big deal, considering the stuff she’s handled from him.  Handled _for_ him.  She’s loyal.  She’s his partner.  She--

 

“I’ll show you pain,” he says.

 

And then he pushes her onto the bed and shoves her shirt up to her chin.

 

_(Ants know that caterpillars are afraid.)_

 

“You knew,” she says.  He doesn’t say anything in response.  He’s grabbing at the buttons on her jeans, and even though she squeezes her legs shut and tries to form a protective barrier by curling up like a dead maggot he drags off every piece of clothing she’s wearing one-by-one.  The friction from the denim burns.  For some reason, this doesn’t feel unlike the first time.  The only difference is that this time she’s letting him know that she’s afraid (pathetic), and he’s letting her know that he doesn’t care.

 

She’s pinned like an insect, bare with her arms above her and him between her legs.  She’s breathing, but there’s no oxygen in the room.  She doesn’t want to look him in the face.  He knew.  Of course he knew, but he didn’t care then and he doesn’t care now.  How could she have been so stupid?

 

“Is this what we’re doing now?” she asks, looking adamantly at the locked door.  “Is this a punishment?”

 

He bites her, hard, as though he’s actually trying to tear a chunk out of her and that’s completely appropriate, all things considered.

 

 _Go ahead, rip me up,_ she thinks.  _That makes it a happy ending for the wolf, right?_

He runs a hand down her torso, tracing the line of her sternum.  She doesn’t react, because he wants a reaction, and she’s not going to give it to him.

 

“Is this what you’d always planned on doing?” she starts to ask.  “Was this what you were thinking about when you took me in?”

 

All she actually gets to say is, “Is this--" because he punches her in the gut so hard that she nearly throws up, and she can’t stop herself from crying out at that.  At this point, she’s trembling and she’s not sure whether she’s angry or afraid or just sick.  She turns her head slowly to meet his eye.

 

“Fuck you,” she says, and it comes out pathetic and shaky.

 

He seems to think that’s funny. 

 

The inevitable happens.

 

It’s not as if she doesn’t scream.  She screams until her throat is raw, she thrashes and she bites and when he lets go of her hands to keep her from turning her face away she scratches and shoves and keeps on howling like a wild animal, but in the end, he’s just _bigger_ than she is, and it doesn’t matter if it hurts or if she’s bleeding or if all her organs are going to fall out, because that’s nature.

 

He grabs her face, turns it so that she has to look at him.

 

She looks at him.

\---

_One thing she really hated about Viktor was that he never told her off, and she knew it was because just having her around made him feel guilty.  Even Mama had the guts to tell her when she was being a brat, and Tara knew she was a bratty kid.  What kind of king couldn’t even stand up to a grubby ten-year-old?_

_All the same, he was persistent in his attempts to win her over.  Maybe it was because of Brion, who insisted that Tara tag along on family adventures.  Maybe he saw Mama in her and he was making up for being a shithead a long time ago._

_At first, he kept on buying her things she didn’t want.  First it was dolls, and when that didn’t work, it was trucks.  He tried all kinds of clothes, which she ignored in favor of tattered leftovers from her life in America (although she was happy to wear things that belonged to other people, including the poor Queen’s jewelry).  He could lure her into interacting with him with sweets, but Tara was sneaky.  She was pretty good at grabbing food and running._

_Eventually, he must have figured out that she was unbuyable, because he stopped offering bribes and started just sitting quietly as she went about her business.  A couple of times, she called him an old creep (which upset Brion deeply) but she did wind up getting used to him.  He didn’t tell her not to spend all her time looking at dead things, or not to play in the dirt.  He just acknowledged her presence, and she acknowledged his._

_Once or twice, probably because of Brion’s influence, she slipped up and called him “Papa” instead of just “king” and “old man” and “you.”  He’d wised up enough to know not to make a big deal out of it, but she was plenty embarrassed anyway, and she was always rotten afterwards to make sure he knew she didn’t mean it._

_All the same, Papa never told her off, and that was terrible._

\---

It works to think about other things, when you run out of energy.

 

When Slade finishes, Tara’s way off somewhere else, thinking about Portuguese birds, fairy lights, and emergency assets.

 

She only realizes it’s over because nothing is holding her down anymore.  She sees him sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from her.  The mattress creaks when she sits up.  She’s kind of afraid to, but she looks down at herself to check for damage.

 

There’s damage.  When she breathes in, it hurts a little.  Not enough for a broken rib, probably.  There are large, obvious red marks on her wrists and thighs that she knows will turn into ugly bruises later, and, judging by how tender and hot it feels, there’s going to be one on her cheek, too.

 

She doesn’t look anywhere else.  Whatever’s there, she doesn’t want to see.

 

Just in case she sees something unwanted by mistake, she pulls the crumpled sheet up and wraps it around herself so that only her head is uncovered.  She scoots forward a little and joins Slade on the edge.

 

“I hate you,” she says quietly when he turns to look at her.

 

“You don’t,” he says.  He reaches for her, and instinctively she shrinks back and tries to slap his hand away, but he catches her wrist before she can, and slowly lowers it to her side.  He begins to pet her hair, and she lets him.

 

“You just,” she says.  She needs to say it out loud, or else it won’t matter.  “I know the laws in this country,” she says, stupidly, because it’s not like she follows them.  “You just raped me, didn’t you?”

 

“Did I?” he asks, still petting her head as though she’s some kind of small animal.  Despite everything, she lets him.  What does that say about her?

 

“I-- yeah.  I… didn’t want it,” Tara says.  For some reason, the more she speaks, the more ashamed she feels.  She’s already confused enough as it is.  She slumps to the side so her head is on Slade’s shoulder.  She wants to cry, but she hasn’t done that since… since.  She’s not about to start now.

 

“You aren’t running away from me, though.”

 

“You’re the only person I trust,” Tara admits.  If she ran away, where would she run to?  Brion wouldn’t even recognize the thing she’s turned into, and there’s no way the Titans would put up with the actual her.  “Nobody else understands me like you do.  You know all the ugly parts of me.  The snarling parts.”

 

“The snarling isn’t ugly,” he says as he lets her head slide into his lap.  “It’s a warning to those who would take you for granted.”  She stares up at him.  Why does he always know the right thing to say, even after...? 

 

“Should I forget that you did this?” Tara asks.  “Because I will, if you need me to.”  She means it.  She can’t exactly wipe her memory, but she’s a great liar.  She can trick herself if she needs to.

 

“Remember,” Slade says.

 

She knows that’s a warning.  She can respect that.

 

“I should get going,” she says.  He nods.

 

She redresses as quickly as she can.  Her tank top has a big stain on it from the puddle on the floor, but she doesn’t really care, because she wants to cover herself up as quickly as possible.  She even pulls Starfire’s cutesy sweater out of her bag and puts it on over top of everything, just to make sure she won’t have to look at the marks on her wrists.

 

She says a hasty goodbye and takes off into the night.  She tries her best not to think too much.

~~

**dead bluejay iambic pentemeter**

_(Found scribbled hastily inside an abandoned notebook in a distant elementary school, xx75)_

_he thought cause he had wings he’d get to fly_

_he was an idiot, ran into the glass_

_instead of migrating he freaking died_

_bill puked on my stuff and he is an ass_

~~

The Tower is dark.  Everybody must be in bed.  She creeps in through her own window and takes a deep breath.  She knows that if she lies down, she won’t get up for at least twelve hours.  She’ll wake up in these clothes, and the first thing she’ll think of when she sees them is what happened tonight.  She’s not stupid.  She knows that if she doesn’t do anything, this is going to feel a lot worse tomorrow.

 

She takes a shower and does her best not to look down.  She still sees a little blood swirling down the drain.  She hopes it’s from the cut she’s discovered on her foot.  She’s not sure how she got it.  She stands still until the hot water runs out, and for a little while after that.  She puts on some of her laundry room plunder ( _Gotham University: Est. 1843_ ) and tries to go to sleep.

 

She doesn’t go to sleep.

\---

She realizes with horror that she’s been wearing her camera lenses all day.  She prays that they were out of energy by the time she got to the compound, but she can’t be sure.  She pops them out and puts them into her case without checking to see if they have any juice left in them.

 

If they were on, during _that_ , then there’s video footage of _that_.  All of it.  Every detail.  She’d managed to space out for most of it, but if it’s on video…  At least it’s not obviously her.  It’s from her point of view, so it could be anyone.  But it’s her voice and it’s her bruises and her clothes and--

 

“Please, please, please,” she whispers to nobody.  She wants to destroy the lenses.  She wants to burn everything she was wearing.  She wants to burn the sheets it happened on, she wants to burn the whole bed, the couch and the carpet and--

 

Tara takes a deep breath.  Freaking out over this is stupid.  She’s being stupid.

 

She doesn’t want to burn the sweater, at least.  It was in the bag.  It didn’t see anything.

\---

Tara creeps into the main ops.  She knows exactly what she’s doing, and it’s kind of slimy, but it’s better than nothing.

 

She can’t afford to be like this.  She feels restless and ashamed and sick.  She knows it’s going to be worse in the morning unless she does something about it.

 

There’s only one person she knows that can solve emotions, and that person rarely sleeps.

 

Tara stands in the dark for a few seconds, near the window.  She’s almost certain that Raven will be somewhere in this room, but she’s not about to crawl up to her and beg for help.  All she can do is hope that Raven will see her, and then they can do something.

 

“You’re hurt,” Raven says, predictably.  She is completely enveloped in the shadows.  Tara can hardly tell which direction her voice is coming from.

 

“Jesus, you need to stop creeping up on people like that,” Tara says through the flood of relief.  “You startled me.”

 

“You have some new injuries,” Raven says.  Tara still can’t see her, but she can hear movement.  “Do you want me to help with them?”

 

“I… yeah,” Tara says.  Physical injuries aren’t really her priority, but actually…  “Yeah, make them disappear.  I don’t want to look at them.”  Tara pauses.  Getting rid of the bruises sounds really good, but that’s not what she’s here for.  “Also, can you do that thing again?  Where you suck the feelings out?”

 

“It’s a little more complicated than ‘sucking the feelings out,’” Raven says with a twinge of irritation.  “It’s heavy psychic work.”

 

Tara steps forward so she can actually see Raven.  Her eyes are adjusting to the dark, now.  Raven is sitting in an armchair with a book on her lap, looking for all the world like somebody’s grandmother.

 

“Just tonight,” Tara says.  “I want to empty my head out.  In the morning, I’ll be able to think clearly.  But right now.”  Tara takes a deep breath.  “Right now, I want you to get rid of everything.”

 

“That sounds… bad,” Raven says.  She stands up anyway.  “What have you been doing?”

 

“No questions,” Tara says.  She’s certain that Raven doesn’t want to know.  “Scrape the gunk out of my brain until there’s nothing left, okay?”  She puts a hand on Raven’s shoulder and meets her eyes.  “Right now, what I need is to be empty.”

 

“I hope I can help,” Raven says nervously.  No, Raven shouldn’t be the nervous one.  Raven’s the one who can fix this.  Tara needs someone to fix this.

 

“Do it,” Tara says, grabbing Raven’s cool hand and pressing it to her own forehead.  Raven’s concerned expression intensifies.

 

Raven pulls her hand back, but now she looks more determined than anxious.  “If you want me to get the injuries, too, I’ll need to feel your heart.”  She gestures to one of the couches.  “And if you want me to get, um… really deep in there, for your head, it’ll be easier if you’re lying down.  This might be a little uncomfortable, though, so--“

 

Tara nearly bursts out laughing.  Whatever Raven has in store can’t hold a candle to Tara’s current state of “uncomfortable.”  She flops onto the couch and grins, unable to contain how relieved she is that Raven is willing to do this for her.

 

“How’s that, doc?” she asks.

 

“That... that should be fine,” Raven says, kneeling by the couch.  She puts one hand on Tara’s forehead, and the other skims over her chest, like a bird wondering where to perch.  She settles it on Tara’s left breast, which seems like an odd choice.

 

“Trying to cop a feel?” Tara jokes.  She’s not quite as comfortable with touching as she thought she’d be, but now she’s committed.  She can’t exactly back out at this point.

 

“Please don't make this weird,” Raven says, blushing.  Tara realizes that her left breast is right over her heart, and suddenly she feels a little guilty.  She shouldn’t go around embarrassing the only person who can help her right now.  Tara shrugs, because she doesn’t want to apologize out loud.

 

Raven closes her eyes and presses both of her hands down.  For a second, Tara doesn’t feel anything different, and she wonders if something has gone wrong, but then, suddenly--

 

The ocean is back. 

 

Again, they’ve been locked into place, and again, Tara has the strange sensation of being tugged at by a waning tide.  She can see Raven’s focused expression, but she can feel currents, stronger than the last time, and faster.  They’re flowing down through her whole body, following her veins and picking up debris as they go.

 

Tara sees Raven wince as a bruise forms on her face, and at that moment, Tara feels a coolness on her own cheek.  She can actually feel the swelling go down as Raven takes it in, and then she sees that same bruise disappear.  One-by-one, every new injury races out of Tara’s body into Raven’s, and one-by-one, Raven erases them.

 

What does this mean for the injuries that Raven can’t see?  Tara can feel those ones leaving, too, but…

 

It’s difficult to stay focused with so many things moving at once.

 

The ocean keeps flowing, and Raven’s face twists in pain.  There isn’t anything Tara can do about it.  She can’t stop her.  Why hadn’t she considered this?  Raven grits her teeth and keeps on going.

 

Finally, Raven takes that last deep breath, and all those lingering pieces of driftwood and all those discarded cups and solitary flip-flops are torn away in a sudden rip current.  With this release, Raven goes limp and collapses against the couch.

 

Just before Tara starts to get worried, Raven shakily raises her head, and then falls backwards so she’s lying on the floor.  Tara just stares at her quietly for a few seconds and watches her breathe.  She looks kind of sick.  Did Tara make her sick?  She’s feeling a little foggy right now, but she should probably do something…  Should she find cold medicine or something?  Oh, Raven is sitting up.

 

“How’s it?” Raven asks.  She looks exhausted.  “Still hurt?”

 

“Better,” Tara says, nodding.  Everything feels very loose.  Raven still looks sick.  “Can’t,” she tries to explain.

 

“That was…”  Raven takes a breath.  “That was more than I’ve ever done at once.  Why did you have so many…?”

 

“No questions,” Tara says.  She can feel herself becoming more lucid every second, but she still feels floaty and tingly.  “How long will this last?”

 

“The physical injuries are gone forever,” Raven says, and like that she’s all prim and cool again.  “Whatever was in your head is going to come back later.  You remember.”

 

Tara thinks about the last time they did this.  Was she this dopey last time, too?  Either way, she remembers.  “I remember,” she says.  “I guess it’ll only be quiet for the night, then.”

 

“Sorry,” Raven says quietly.  “I had to go beyond my own limit.  I don’t think I could make…”

 

“It’s fine,” Tara says.  “I don’t feel empty,” she admits.  That’s kind of disappointing.  She’d wanted to become empty, very much.  Does she still want that?  Who knows?  “It’s not bad, but something’s still left in there.”

 

“I did my best,” Raven says.  Is she mad?  She sounds a little mad.  What’s she mad about? “It's not like I'd be able to erase your personality or something. Did you want me to turn you into a mannequin?”

 

Tara sits up and tucks her knees under her chin.  “I'm not freaked out anymore,” she says. “I was up for being a mannequin, I guess. They always look so composed. If you don't mind, could you...?” She knows she sounds goofy.  Mannequins…  In dramatic poses at departments stores, all fashionable.  If she were a mannequin she’d be one of those art mannequins with the wires.  Yeah.

 

“I can't do that. I can only take away...  plaque, I think.”  So serious.  Raven is so serious.  Plaque.  Plaques.  “I can only take away buildup, and intrusive thoughts, and things that don't form naturally. I can soften extreme reactions, but I can't actually make feelings disappear.”

 

“Plaque,” Tara says. “Mental plaque.”  Plaque, plaque.  Mannequins.

 

“What?”

 

“If you really want to deal with that, you have to go to the mentist,” Tara snaps her fingers and grins. “But he'll lecture you about flossing your brain.”

 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Raven says.

 

“It was a joke.”

 

“Funny,” Raven says, nodding.

 

Tara does her best to keep a straight face, but she can’t.  She ducks behind her knees and lets herself giggle for a couple of seconds before reemerging.  “You don't just say 'funny' after you hear a joke,” she says. “That's really weird. You're supposed to either laugh or roll your eyes.”

 

“Sometimes I roll my eyes when Garfield makes jokes,” Raven says. “I just wasn't sure if it was appropriate to--”

 

“Everybody rolls their eyes whenever the Green-Bean _talks,_ ” Tara says.  “But I guess that's a step in the right direction.”  She’s going to have to do a lot of work on Raven to make her understand jokes.  How is she going to get Raven to like jokes?  This is a pressing issue.

 

“He says that he tried to kiss you without asking first,” Raven says. “I scolded him. Is he still bothering you?”

 

“Nah,” Tara says. “He's just kind of annoying. He's sweet when he's not being a little douchebag.”  Even so, the idea of Raven scolding someone for bothering her is… nice.  What a nice thing for Raven to do.

 

“Do you want to be friends with him?” Raven asks.

 

 “I guess,” Tara says, and suddenly she’s embarrassed. “I mean, I did kind of push him into a lake. But being friends might be nice.”

 

“He's like a puppy,” Raven says. “You have to be nice to him, but don't let him get away with misbehaving, or else he'll start stealing your cloaks and pretending to be you.”

 

 “Did that happen?”  Tara likes that image.  She hopes it happened.  It sounds good.

 

“When I was very new here,” Raven says. “Donna gave me the puppy advice, and we've gotten along pretty well ever since. He flirted with me for a while, too, but then he outgrew it. I think that might just be his default way of interacting with people.”

 

“I don't get romance,” Tara says. “Like, cuddling up to people and holding their hands and kissing them. In the end, they just wanna fuck, and everything else is just excuses. It all just seems like a means to an end, you know?”

 

Raven pauses for a while.  She has that contemplative look on her face, like she’s really thinking through what Tara’s been saying.  She doesn’t need to do that.  Tara’s not some kind of… lecture-giver.  She’s just talking about… talking about lying and fucking and stuff.  And mentists.

 

“Romance isn't always fake,” Raven says a little shyly. “I think Dick and Kory are in love.”

 

Tara rolls her eyes at that. “You kidding me?” she asks. “He's rich and bendy and hates wearing pants, and she looks like a bunch of water balloons glued together with a lipstick and a wig on top. They're totally screwing.”

 

 “Even if they are, they still love each other,” Raven says.  She’s blushing.  That’s cute.  It’s a cute face.

 

“Because they like screwing,” Tara explains.  Despite how cute she’s being, Raven is starting to get frustrating.  “I mean, have you seen how they look at each other? It's disgusting.”

 

“It's not disgusting,” Raven says. “They're friends, too. They do plenty of other things, so even if they _weren't_ , I think that, um--”

 

“I just don't believe it,” Tara says. “They're too sparkly. It's definitely a lie.”

 

But they did do some kissing in the woods, Tara realizes.  Dick and Kory did some kissing in the woods and they seemed happy with that.  If they were lying about that, it would be really sad.

 

“Friendship is real,” Raven says. “You can care about someone without trying to get anything from them.”

 

“Maybe,” Tara says. “I don't know if that's true, either.”

 

What do friends even do?  Is it like TV?  It’s probably like TV.  Friends… drink a lot of alcohol and talk about funny shit.  And they have dinner parties.

 

 “Maybe it is fake, but I'd rather believe it's real,” Raven says.  Now, that sad look on her face has hardened into determination.  “I want to be able to look at people without… without thinking about what they want from me all the time.”

 

“That's just lying to yourself,” Tara says. “People are animals. It's kill or be killed out there, you know?”

 

Raven keeps on looking at her like that.  Like, _through_ her.  Raven can’t read minds.  It doesn’t matter, because Tara’s not lying anyway, but Raven shouldn’t give her that look like she can read minds.  Raven’s making a face like she’s reading Tara’s mind, and Tara’s mind is upsetting her.

 

What’s wrong with Tara’s mind?  It works fine.  It thinks and has opinions and stuff.  But Raven is pretty when she furrows her eyebrows like that, so maybe Tara should let her keep staring for a while.

 

 “You should go to sleep before the effect wears off,” Raven says, standing. “You won't have any bad dreams, and you'll probably be in a better mood in the morning.”

 

No.  That’s no good.  Raven should keep staring, or maybe just sit there, or something.  She shouldn’t leave, definitely not.  Tara reaches out and grabs her hand.

 

“Stay,” she says. “We've got enough couch space for two people. I'll stop talking.”

 

Raven looks at her, and now she seems almost confused.  She’s pretty when she’s confused too.  She can keep looking.  It’s all good.

 

Raven nods and sits down next to her.  Tara immediately latches onto her so that she won’t leave.  Raven’s hair is so _long,_ but it’s not fluffy like Kory’s.  It’s just heavy.  Tara should braid it sometime.  She’s really tired.

 

They fall asleep curled up like that.  Even though Raven is usually kind of cold, Tara feels warm when they’re lying together.  She has indescribable soft dreams about shimmering places and familiar, smiling people who sit on the grass and talk about nothing.

 

Most of their faces are kind of blurry, but Tara sees Raven clearly among them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i'm very sorry)
> 
>  **UP NEXT:** Some sick bastards disgrace a noble bird. A first kiss and a sweet sixteen party. Maureen, the Lady Pervert.


	7. Lekking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tara does a lot of thinking. Media training. The Titans stop an office worker from enjoying his day off. A dream...?
> 
> This is lighter than the last couple of chapters. Warning for gaslighting, mild homophobia, referenced sexual assault (that's my "light" i guess...).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is both so late and so short... None of the stuff in the preview happens here but it's building up don't worry.
> 
> I'm graduating in a month, so I've been up to my ears in Hell World. They made me put on a robe and do a video interview. I only had to say eight words but it was me. Doing. A video interview. Me, a goblin. In a robe. Like some kind of education cultist.
> 
> I've also been multitasking a little, since I want to get at least one or two things up for Dickkory week, and because I'm also working on a side project for a friend, and I'm in a class which involves me writing and editing a novel about homunculi and mobsters
> 
> Also I really wish that Manic Shieldings would make an appearance to do 100000 things at once because that bitch kills me to death every time but _man_ can she pump out words, even if she doesn't eat sometimes and Depressive Shieldings can both not eat and not do things which isn't a useful skill set

They’re sitting on the floor in Gar’s room.  The window’s open, because it’s warm outside and the room smells like stale chips.  Tara is explaining to Gar, using objectivity and logic, why science fiction is stupid.

 

“Like, there are aliens here, right?  So why should we waste our time making up more of them?”

 

“Why do you hate imagination?” Gar asks.  “Why do you hate fantasy and dreaming?”

 

“Because I’m not a fucking baby,” Tara says, crossing her arms.  “Anyway--"

 

“Hey!  What do you think about voucher schools?” Dick asks, sliding in between them like a champion baseball player.

 

Tara splutters and scrambles backwards.

 

“Those voucher schools,” Dick continues, resting his chin on his hand.  “What’s your opinion on them?”

 

“Oh no,” Donna says, walking into the room.  “It’s the press.”

 

Tara looks helplessly from side to side.  Gar shrugs.  Dick smiles charmingly.  Donna crosses her arms.

 

“Schools, with vouchers,” Dick says.  “Vouchers for schools.  Opinions?”

 

“I don’t know what a voucher school is,” Tara says.  She’s getting a vague idea of what’s going on.  It’s ‘media training.’  Donna wasn’t lying about the startling part.

 

“’I Don’t Know What a Voucher School Is,’” Dick says, writing on an invisible notepad.  “’Local Titan Uneducated About Education.’”

 

“Booo,” Gar says.  “Try again.”

 

“Oh no,” Donna says.  “The press is being hostile.”

 

“Drugs!” Dick announces.  “What do you think about them?”

 

“Send them to… send them to jail,” Tara says.

 

“’Send Them to Jail:  Local Titan Supports Incarceration for Intoxication!’”  Dick emphatically slams his imaginary pen into his imaginary paper.

 

“Uh-oh,” Donna says.  “That means that a lot of teenagers are going to jail.  Don’t you know that your parents probably smoked pot in the ‘60s?”

 

 “Take them out of jail,” Tara says, trying not to look visibly panicked.  How come this imaginary interrogation is stressing her out so much?

 

“’Terra of the Teen Titans:  Release the Heroin Dealers!’”

 

“That’s bad press,” Gar says, unhelpfully.  “You know what heroin dealers do, right?  They deal--"

 

“I know what heroin dealers do!” Tara snaps.

 

“Interesting, interesting,” Dick says, continuing his mime-journalism.  “So, knowing what heroin dealers do, do you still want to--"

 

“Shut up!” Tara says.

 

“She hates the press!” Gar says.  “She has something to hide from the media!”

 

“New headline!” Dick says.  “’Local Titan--'”

 

“And… scene!” Donna says, clapping her hands together.  “That was terrible,” she says, smiling.

 

Dick sits up straight.  “You didn’t punch me,” he says.  “Good job.”

 

“Vic punched him,” Gar says.

 

“He broke my nose.”  Dick points to his nose.  “The only reason it’s so cute is because of Raven.”

 

“It’s not that cute,” Tara says.  She’s still coming down from the imaginary-interview-panic.

 

“It’s cute,” Gar says, poking Dick’s nose.  “Don’t worry, they all used to suck at this.  They’ve just been in the biz for longer.”

 

“’They?’”

 

“I’ve always been charming,” Gar says, shrugging.  “I used to be on TV, you know.”

 

Tara doesn’t believe him, but she decides not to waste the time pressing him.  “Isn’t you dad a celebrity?” she asks, looking at Dick.  “I bet you already had a lot of practice before becoming a superhero.”

 

“I got paparazzi’d a lot,” Dick says.  “When I was twelve--"

 

“It was amazing,” Donna interrupts.  “They got him to say Mr. Wayne picked his entire board of directors based on sex appeal.”

 

“None of them were even pretty,” Gar adds.

 

“I didn’t say it was sex appeal,” Dick says.  “They twisted my words.  Also, in my defense, Jerry could have probably pulled off a silver fox look if he wanted to.”

 

“Headline: ‘Dick Loves Jerry,’” Gar says solemnly.

 

“What are we going to tell Kory?” Donna asks, shaking her head sadly.

 

“She can read about it in the news tomorrow,” Tara says.

 

Everyone laughs except for Dick.

\---

“Just, uh, so you know,” she says, pulling down her soundproof earmuffs.  Target practice is done for today.  The new dummy has no face and no personality, but it still takes a bullet all right.  “No hard feelings.”

 

Slade doesn’t even look up from the request list he’s reading.  “About what?” he asks.

 

Tara feels a twinge of irritation, which is a strange emotion to feel about this stuff.  “Last time,” she says.  “I’m saying that I’m not mad at you and I’ll try to do better.”

 

“Why would you be mad at me?” he asks.

 

For some reason, she feels cold.  “You remember,” she says.  “What you…  You remember what happened.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“It was only a week ago,” Tara says.  “You’re not stupid, right?  I’m just saying-- you told me.  You told me to remember, so…”

 

Slade finally looks up.  “What did I tell you to remember?” he asks.  She can’t read his face.  Is this some kind of weird joke?  It’s not funny.  She feels cold.

 

“Last week you got angry,” she says.  “You were angry because I was being too showy and I embarrassed you.”

 

“I see,” he says.  “Well, you remember that well enough.”  He goes back to his reading.

 

“There was more!”  Tara says.  “You can’t have forgotten what you did!  I’m not mad-- I’m _not_ \-- but there’s no way--“

 

“What did I do, exactly?”

 

She doesn’t want to say it out loud.  He can’t have forgotten.  People don’t just forget that, right?  “It was in your room,” she says, staring at her boots.  “The…  the bed, remember?”

 

“I don’t,” he says flatly.  “Are you sure you didn’t dream it?”

 

“I didn’t dream it!” she says, and now there’s genuine indignation behind her voice.  “Why would I dream that!?  I trusted-- I trust you!”

 

“Dreams are strange like that,” he says.  “Go clean your gun.  Get everything back into order before you leave.”

 

She wants to stay and argue, but she knows she’s not going to get anywhere.  She has no fucking clue what kind of game Slade’s playing.  Why would he lie about this?  This was huge.  What happened was wrong.  She made mistakes, sure, but he wasn’t _totally_ blameless.  If this had just been an incident of Tara screwing up, then she’d be happy if he couldn’t remember it.  But this was weird.  What happened that night wasn’t the kind of thing anyone would just forget.

 

She gets her rifle in order and puts it away.  She says a quick goodbye and heads back to the Tower.

\---

Even though she knows it’s pointless, Tara stands naked in front of the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.

 

There are plenty of old scars from various past fights.  There are stretch marks on her legs, because she gained a lot of weight really fast as soon as she had access to actual food.  She has bruises on her knees from falling over during a fight with some guy in a fish costume yesterday, and there’s a bandage plastered over a shallow cut on her side from some wannabe-samurai’s cheap-ass sword. 

 

Dick stitched up her costume, and Raven stitched up her torso.  Raven had offered to just take the wound, but Dick had firmly shaken his head and said something about taking care of herself before taking care of others.  Tara could respect that.

 

There aren’t any marks from that night.  There shouldn’t be.  Raven got rid of them.  Now, for some sick reason, Tara wishes they were there.  She wants evidence.  She wants bruises to display: big dark bruises healing into an ugly yellow, shaped like hitting and grabbing and trapping.

 

But, of course, there aren’t any.

 

Tara has a lot of nightmares.

 

They all feel real, but they don’t leave marks.

 

She dresses quickly and goes to bed.  She doesn’t have any dreams.

\---

_“Cinderella was such a stupid girl,” Tara said.  “She only met him once, but she thought it would be a good idea to marry him.”_

_Brion shook his head.  “It was for love.  If it’s for love, it’s good.”_

_“He was a stranger, though,” Tara said, leaning back to look at the ceiling.  It had an elaborate, abstract pattern painted on it.  Looking at it made her a little dizzy, which was nice.  “Shouldn’t talk to those, remember?  You’ll get all ripped up.”_

_Brion made his frustration noise before falling back to join her with a thump.  “It’s different,” he said.  “Everyone is a stranger when you first meet them.”_

_“I guess the only way to be safe is to never talk to anyone, then,” Tara said.  She turned her head to smirk at Brion, who rolled his eyes._

_“I was a stranger,” he said.  “You talked to me.”_

_“That was, like, ten years ago.”_

_“You would have been only a baby.”  Brion paused.  “Babies don’t talk.”_

_“Congrats on figuring that out.”_

_Another groan._

_“Your English has gotten way better,” Tara said.  “When I first showed up, you were really shitty at it.”  The swirls on the ceiling danced if she squinted at them right.  “Three years is a long time, I guess.”_

_“Yes.  It is.”  Brion sounded a little sad when he said that.  Tara wasn’t sure whether it was nostalgia or something else.  “How are the experiments?”_

_“Not as sore anymore,” Tara said.  “And I can, uh…” she tried to think of the right word.  “I can kind of squish bricks a little.  Not, like, in a strong way, but like clay.”_

_Brion’s eyes widened.  “You have to show that to me!  It sounds very awesome!”_

_“I still have to be touching them,” Tara said, even though she felt a nice jolt of pride run through her chest.  “But I can squeeze them and leave finger marks.”_

_“I can’t wait until I get to have a turn,” Brion said.  “We can be awesome together.”_

_“Yeah,” Tara said.  “Together.”_

_“How is Dr. Jace?”_

_“Excited,” Tara said, remembering the way the woman’s eyes flashed when that first brick gave in.  “Soon, she wants to move on and see how I do with natural stuff.”_

_  
“Explain,” Brion said, rolling over to stare at her._

_“Pyotr told you about rocks.”_

_“Explain,” Brion repeated.  Tara rolled her eyes._

_“Bricks are processed, so Jace figured they’d be easier to start with.  Like, how baby food’s ground up when you get it.  We’re hoping that I’ll be able to do pure minerals, like quartz and stuff.”_

_“Quartz is made of silica,” Brion said proudly._

_“A-plus.”_

_“I wonder what I’ll be able to do,” Brion said.  He looked a little dreamy.  “I hope it has fire or lightning in it.”_

_“You’d blow up the castle.”_

_“Wouldn’t!”_

_“I’m glad that I wound up with rocks.  I already like rocks,” Tara said.  “When she told me she didn’t know what it would be, it freaked me out a little.  Like, do you know the JLA?”_

_“Jla,” Brion said.  “Is that a real word?”_

_“Justice League of America.  They’re the US’s metahuman… superhero club.  Because it’s only superheroes.  Or… superhero union, like a teacher’s union, maybe.”_

_“Teacher’s union?”_

_“All the teachers get together and decide what to do, and then when they think they’re not being paid enough, they all stop working at once.  I think that’s what the JLA is for superheroes.”_

_“I see,” Brion said, although he still looked confused.  “What about them?”_

_“They’ve got all sorts of things going on, and most of them can do cool stuff.  Like, flying or running fast or changing size.”  Tara checked to see if Brion was still confused, and he seemed fine, so she kept going.  “Except that some of them have really gross powers, and I was worried I’d get that.  Do you know Plastic Man?”_

_“A recycling mascot,” Brion said.  “He was at the fall festival.”_

_“Different one.  The JLA one is really stretchy.  Like, even his face?  And they use him as a slingshot and he can tie people up by wrapping around them like a snake, and I really hate him,” Tara said in one breath.  “I was scared that I would be, uh, Plastic Kid, or Stretch Girl, or something like that.”_

_“It sounds good to me,” Brion said._

_“If you get stretchy, I’m disowning you,” Tara said._

_“I won’t get stretchy, then.”_

_“Nice of you.”_

\---

“Hypnos,” Donna says, snapping her fingers.

 

“What?” Tara asks.

 

“It was the name I was thinking of.  He’s the Greek god of sleep.”  Donna smiles a little.  “I should remember this stuff.  I grew up on it.  I was talking to Terry the other day, and neither of us could remember.”

 

“Really?  Doesn’t Terry know everything?” Tara asks, tilting her head and widening her eyes dramatically.

 

“Of course not,” Donna says, apparently unaware of the sarcasm.  “He’s just a guy, you know.  Being a teacher doesn’t make him different.”

 

“Why were you even talking about that?” Tara asks.  “Was it one of your history things?”

 

“Nope.”  Donna shakes her head.  “Raven started it.”

 

Tara involuntarily perks up.  “What did she say?”

 

“Um, it was one of her psychology books.  She mentioned Thanatos--" for some reason a chill runs down Tara’s spine.  “And I remembered that he had a brother.”

 

“E-- Eros, maybe?” Tara asks.

 

“No relation.  His parents are ‘Night’ and ‘Darkness,’ and his children, the Oneiroi, are ‘Shape’ and ‘Fear’ and ‘Fantasy.’  They make up dreams.  Romantic, right?”

 

“Romantic,” Tara repeats.

 

“I guess that the family lineage depends on who’s telling the story,” Donna says.  “But I have to remind Terry on our date tonight.”

 

“Hot stuff,” Tara says.

 

“He’ll appreciate it,” Donna says.  “Greek mythology is something we have in common.  Also, I’ve met a lot of gods, so I can give him inside knowledge.”  She winks.

 

Tara is uncertain whether she’s serious or not, so she decides just not to ask.

\---

“Sleep and death are brothers,” Tara announces the next time she sees Slade.  “That’s what I heard.”

 

“Don’t start philosophizing.  If you do, you’ll wind up soft and brooding.”

 

“Try me,” Tara says, blocking a punch.  “Doesn’t that make it sound like sleeping is just a trial run for dying?”

 

“That’s why I avoid it,” Slade says sardonically as he dodges a chunk of concrete.

 

“Not sleeping’ll make you go nuts,” Tara says.

 

“Too late.”

 

They both have a good laugh about that.

\---

“Oh, Dave, not again…” Wonder Girl says.  “I understand that life can get frustrating, but you know what happens when you do this!”

 

“I fucking hate my job,” Dave answers.  “Why can’t you just let me enjoy my days off?”

 

Tara had wondered why this particular mission only needed three people, but now it’s pretty obvious.  Changeling is shifting from side to side, practically vibrating with contained energy.  He’s not looking at Dave, or at Wonder Girl, who’s hovering in the air next to him.

 

He’s looking at the twelve-foot tall pillbug that Dave is sitting on.  Or…  Maybe it’s more of an armadillo.  Or some species of terrible deep-sea isopod, except with a wiggling snout and a whiplike tail.

 

“Do we know this guy?” Terra whispers.

 

“It’s just Dave,” Changeling whispers back, not explaining anything.

 

“Why won’t anybody just let me treat myself!?” Dave asks, throwing his hands in the air.  The creature screeches in agreement.

 

“I really want to pet it,” Changeling says quietly.

 

“You’re stopping traffic, and you’re damaging city property,” Wonder Girl says.  “It’s none of our business what you make in your basement--“

 

“Unless it’s meth,” Terra calls up.

 

“Unless it’s meth,” Wonder Girl agrees.  “Anyway, Dave, can’t you just walk your… friend… out in the country, where there aren’t any traffic signs to knock over?”

 

“Clarissa’s a city girl,” Dave says.  Clarissa screeches in agreement.  “Just let me enjoy my day.”  He looks and sounds deeply frustrated.

 

Changeling nudges Terra.  “They’re coming,” he whispers.  Sure enough, the news truck is making its merry way down the street, right at them.  “Time to test your media skills!”  He ducks away behind Clarissa, leaving Terra alone in the middle of the street with the microphone lady heading straight for her.

 

“Hello, can I borrow a few seconds?” the microphone lady says.

 

“Uh,” Terra says.  Changeling has disappeared.

 

The microphone lady turns to her cameraman.  “It’s a sunny April day in our city, and Abomination Boy is on another one of his rampages.  He’s already taken out three lampposts, two garbage cans, and the front window of Li Chien’s Hong Kong Buffet on Kelley Street.”

 

“Uh,” Terra says.  She notes the broken window and the crying restaurateur behind Dave, who is still arguing with Wonder Girl.

 

“I have with me here today Terra, of the Teen Titans.”  The microphone lady gestures to Terra.  Terra waves halfheartedly.  “Terra, on behalf of the community, I’d like to ask why the Titans have repeatedly allowed Abomination Boy to walk free, and have not interfered with his various monster experiments.”

 

“Uh,” Terra says.  Her mind has gone blank.  She smiles charmingly.  “He’s not making meth,” she says.

 

“Thank you for your time,” the microphone lady says.  She and the cameraman leave cheerfully.

 

Eventually, they come to an agreement with Dave.  He gets to walk Clarissa in the park as long as he keeps her from knocking things over, and they won’t interfere as long as he doesn’t damage any more city property.  Dave and Clarissa sulk away.  Wonder Girl promises to pay Li Chien for the damages to his front window (and his display of traditional dolls and decorated plates, which has been decimated).

 

Unfortunately, the second page of the newspaper the next day has an article about the Teen Titans lenient treatment of criminals, next to a photo of Terra sweating heavily as a giant monster chews on a lamppost in the background.  Luckily, they do mention that the Titans do not approve of methamphetamines. 

 

“That’s actually pretty good,” Vic says over his morning coffee.  “My first interview had them talking about how I sold illegal fanzines and loved breaking cars with my feet.”

 

“I was the one who sold the zines,” Gar interjects through a mouthful of oatmeal.  “And they weren’t illegal.  Spock/Kirk is good money if you play your cards right, and a lot of those writers made really heartfelt stories.”

 

“The sex stories had illustrations,” Donna says.  “And the cops shut his press down.”

 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Gar says. “They were tasteful.”

 

“I paid bail,” Dick says.

\---

It’s not Tara’s fault that she’s tired.  The Titans coerced her into a whole day of stupid games: first, she had to spar with Kory, who’s just the right combination of enthusiastic and explosive.  Then, Donna and Dick ambushed her and made her give a brief speech on drug use among middle schoolers.  To top it off, Tara wound up getting cried on.  It turns out that Gar really can’t handle dead dog movies.

 

Anyway, it’s not Tara’s fault she’s tired, and it’s not her fault that all the pillows are on that specific couch. 

 

It’s a complete coincidence that Raven happens to be sleeping on it.

 

It’s practically a futon anyway.  There’s plenty of room for two people to lie down, so Tara doesn’t see why it would be a big deal if she just kind of… shimmied up in there, between Raven and the back of the couch.  It’s a shared-body-heat kind of deal.  Purely pragmatic.

 

Raven’s hair falls wildly across the cushions, shining like tangled satin ribbons.  She breathes softly and evenly, but it’s… it’s her voice, in those breaths.  Quiet and solemn, but somehow innocent.  And her eyelashes are long and dark and flutter with the REM movements beneath her eyelids, and it’s hypnotic.

 

Hypnos is sleep, so again, Tara’s just doing this out of practicality.  It has nothing to do with how gently those usually firm hands are opened, or the way that her pale skin nearly glows _(Raven is the moon)_ under the dim lights.

 

There’s no clear explanation as to why Tara wants to touch those half-opened lips and see if they’re as soft as they look.  That’s probably just a side effect of being tired.

 

It’s easier to sleep when someone is next to you, of course.

\---

“We're still not friends, right?” Tara asks one afternoon.  Her lenses are charging in their case, and the sun is distorted by the clouds.  Her heart is heavy.  “Even after you helped me.  Because you can't be my friend.”  She can’t, because then Tara will be ready to complete her contract.

 

“Still not friends,” Raven says.  She peeks out from behind a romance novel; it’s one of the trashy ones.  The buxom heroine on the front is wearing a voluminous pink dress and is swooning in the arms of an open-shirted, sword-wielding man.

 

“I haven't won you over,” Tara says, just to be certain.  “You still don't trust me.”

 

“I don't,” Raven answers.  It stings, but it’s also a relief.

 

“That sucks,” Tara says.  “I'm still not friends with all the Titans.”

 

“Can't collect me,” Raven says, returning to her book.

 

“Those are really dirty, right?” Tara asks.  She gestures to the book.  The expressions on the couple’s faces are borderline obscene.

 

“Less than you'd expect,” Raven says.  “There's sex, but it's the drama that makes it fun to read.”

 

“That's stupid,” Tara says, even though she can’t help smiling.  She likes the idea of Raven getting wrapped up in fictional drama.  Raven crying about her favorite character being killed off, Raven blushing when two characters kiss.  It probably doesn’t look like that, but the image is so cute.  “Isn't there already enough drama around here?”

 

“It's fake drama, so it's fun.”  Raven pauses.  “A lot of stressful things are fun when they're made-up, I think.  The hero of this one is a pirate, and his mentor killed the heroine's father, who was also a pirate, so she meets him while she's trying to have revenge.  Most of the people in this book are pirates.”

 

“That is incredibly stupid,” Tara says.  Raven as a pirate, Raven as a dramatic open-shirted pirate who has revenge on people.  Very good, very good.  Raven swordfighting with a pirate.  Tara as a dramatic open-shirted pirate who swordfights with Raven.  A whole story about that.

 

“Let me read.  I think the sword is a Freudian metaphor, and it's grossing me out.”

 

“Freud... makes everything about sex, right?”  Tara leans forward a little bit.  Eros and Thanatos.  She wants to be praised.

 

“Yep.”

 

Tara is satisfied, so she runs off to do her own thing.

\---

On a cool gray day, when nothing is happening and everyone else is happily lazing around, Tara realizes there’s only one possible explanation for the way she is.

 

She’s in love with Slade.

 

Tara is fine with this, and she knows she shouldn’t be.  She’s okay with Slade lying (?) to her, and she’s okay with him lashing out at her when he’s angry.  She doesn’t mind being hurt if he’s the one who’s hurting her.  When it’s someone else, she gets mad, but she’s never _really_ mad at him.  And out of all the people she’s met, he’s still the one who makes her feel like she’s glowing when he praises her.

 

She wouldn’t let anybody else treat her like this, so the only explanation is that she’s in love.  Everything fits together perfectly, and it forms a picture that’s almost normal.  It’s an unconventional dynamic they have, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad.  Meeting Slade was the best thing that ever happened to her: he saved her.  He taught her how to fight and how to play with words and how to assemble a rifle.  He taught her other stuff, too, but that’s not what she wants to be thinking about right now.

 

It makes much more sense for her to be in love in an unusual situation.  That’s why she feels so weird when she thinks about Slade for too long.  It used to be fine, but now it’s not, because she’s in love.  Any other explanation would be convoluted and dumb.  

 

“Hey, how are you holding up?” someone asks.  Tara nearly falls off the counter.  She needs to stop sitting on the counter.

 

It’s Dick.  He’s holding two cans of soda and looks like he wants to have a serious discussion.  Tara’s not sure how to escape.

 

“Doin’ great,” she says, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.  “I was thinking about dirt.  I love dirt.”  She knows that he knows what she’s saying is bullshit.

 

“You’ve been doing a great job so far,” he says.  He sits next to her on the counter.  His feet almost touch the ground.  She’s jealous.  “As a Titan, I mean.  I told you to look after them, and you have been.”

 

“Really?”  Tara doesn’t feel like she’s been looking after them.  She feels like she’s been clobbering people, making jokes, and standing around awkwardly.

 

“Really,” Dick says, handing her one of the soda cans.  She opens it, and it only explodes a little.  “It can be stressful, though.  I just want to check in and make sure that nothing’s wrong.”

 

Tara remembers-- she’s wearing her lenses.  She put them on this morning.  She needs to try harder.  “Nothing’s wrong,” she says brightly.  “But, I do want a little advice.  I feel kind of like Vic doesn’t like me that much, and I want to understand him better.  Any ideas?”

 

“I think Vic likes you,” Dick says.  “He’s been letting you hang out with Gar, hasn’t he?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“He’s clingy,” Dick says.  “And he likes to take care of people, even though he tries to hide it.  If he’s not interrupting every time he sees you with his best friend, that means he likes you.”

 

“Are you sure?” Tara asks.  “Because sometimes I get the vibe that I’m, um…  Yoko-ing them.”

 

Dick laughs.  “I’ve never heard that used as a verb,” he says.  “I like it.  But, uh, if you want to get to know Vic better, just invite him to join in when you and Gar are talking to each other.  Maybe he won’t feel as excluded.”

 

Tara nods, because she’s not sure what to say.  That’s actually good advice.  She hadn’t expected good advice.  Dick’s a doofus.

 

“Been getting enough sleep?” Dick asks.  Oh no.  Is this about Raven?  Did Dick see her all pressed up against Raven?  Oh no.  Dick thinks she’s a lesbian sex pervert.

 

“You look really tired,” Dick says.  “And you’ve been spacing out a lot lately.  Have you been having a hard time getting to sleep?”

 

“Oh,” Tara says, trying not to look visibly relieved.  “A little.  Maybe I should cut down on the caffeine.”

 

“I’ve got some melatonin supplements if you want them,” Dick says.  “A five-milligram tablet usually knocks me right out if I’m having a hard night.”

 

“I’m not really a fan of sleeping pills,” Tara says.

 

“They’re not addictive or anything.”

 

“I’m really fine,” Tara says more hostilely than she means to.  She’s not in the mood to think about sleeping pills.

 

“Okay, I won’t push you into anything you don’t want to do,” Dick says, looking a little embarrassed.  “But if something’s bothering you, just come to me, okay?  I want you to know that I’m here.”

 

“Yay,” Tara says.  Dick can’t handle the problems Tara has.  He has no fucking idea what kinds of problems Tara has.  Then, she remembers her lenses, so she adds, “I’ll make sure to call you if anything’s worrying me, but I’m actually doing really well right now.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Dick says.  He doesn’t look convinced.  “The first year as a superhero is the hardest, you know.  After that, you’re a pro.”

 

Holy shit.  How long has it been since Tara joined?  She joined early last summer, right after she turned fifteen.  They went camping in November, but it was uncharacteristically warm, so she hadn’t really thought about it as fall.  It’s already early spring.  Did they just skip winter?  Tara has a vague memory of a small Christmas party and a gift exchange (she’d forgotten, and, at the last minute, bought Kory a pair of neon pink legwarmers, which turned out to be exactly what she’d wanted).  On New Year’s Eve, Gar wanted champagne and got scolded.

 

What happened?  Is there some kind of time paradox?  Has Tara really been a Titan for eleven months?  That’s almost a year.  She’s going to be a pro.

 

No, she’s not going to be a pro.  She’s going to kill everybody, go back to the compound, and continue her life as a mercenary.  That’s the contract.  She’s not sure whose contract it is, exactly.  It was someone else’s, then it was Slade’s, and now it’s hers, too.  It’s a contract that got a merc killed, and it’s been unfulfilled for almost five years.

 

What happened five years ago?  A contract usually takes a month, tops.  This is deep undercover work, but usually it’s just an issue of getting information, hiding in the right place, and shooting.  Tara can’t imagine the Titans actually killing an enemy, even a mercenary out to get them.  They’re so sweet.  Of course, she can pass for sweet.

 

This is all so confusing.

 

“What’s wrong?” Dick asks.

 

“Nothing,” Tara says halfheartedly.  Then, more cheerfully, for the lenses, she says, “Nothing!”

 

She knows it’s not enough.  It will never be enough.

 

Enough for who?

\---

If Tara is in love with Slade.

 

If Tara is in love with Slade, then what does that mean?  Is it mutual, or is she pining?  Is this what pining feels like?  She’s never really a hundred percent sure how he feels about anything.  She’s too grown-up to assume that he loves her just because they’re sleeping together.  He’s attracted to her, probably, but that’s not the same thing.  Is she attracted to him?  She likes his attention.  She likes the feeling of being held, and sometimes sex is pretty okay, so she’ll veer towards the side of “attracted.”

 

If he loves her, does that mean that they’re _dating?_   That sounds wrong.  Dating is the wrong word for whatever they’re doing.  They are intimate associates.  Teacher-and-student-with-benefits?  Maybe they’re just “partners.”  That’s ambiguous enough to mean anything, so she likes that. 

 

If he doesn’t love her, that means she needs to either give up or win him over, and she’s not the type of person who gives up easily.  Of course, she’s already kind of doing her best with pretty much everything.  She’s reporting regularly with new information, even when he doesn’t seem that interested.  She’s been spending lots of time with the Titans, and she’s been practicing every day to get stronger.  If that’s not enough, then what else is there?

 

“More sex stuff,” she says out loud.  Vic looks up from his dinner-sized plate of french fries.

 

“What did you just say?” he asks.

 

“Stocks and bonds.  Queen Consolidated is shit.  I’d sell my stocks if I were you,” Tara says.  She’s not totally certain what stocks and bonds are.  She heard about them on the radio, and they sound inoffensive.

 

“Right,” Vic says through a mouthful of potatoes.  “I don’t own any stocks.”

 

“You should buy some,” Tara says as she runs off to her room.

\---

She goes to the same store she buys her cigarettes from, and uses the same fake ID.  She gets a stack of those magazines that have brown paper over the covers, and seven packs of gum to make them less conspicuous.

 

“Sure you want these?” the zitty cashier asks, tilting his head.

 

“I have an oral fixation,” Tara says, gesturing to her gum packs.  Freud, again.  How could Raven prefer that Jung guy?  Lame.

 

“Right,” the cashier says as he rings her up.  He still looks uncomfortable.

 

For some reason, she feels very daring walking through town with a backpack full of dirty magazines.  Nobody knows who she is (thanks to the giant sunglasses and the big coat, which might have been partially responsible for the cashier’s discomfort), and nobody knows what she’s capable of.  She can kill people _and_ she can do all kinds of sex stuff and read about it in magazines.  That’s a femme fatale kind of deal, isn’t it?  Hardcore.

 

She stashes everything away in her closet, in a shoebox next to her lens case.  That shoebox is quickly becoming her “ugly secrets” box.  Maybe she should throw some crayons or plastic toys in there to make it feel less adult.  Or, no, it should feel adult.  It’s all way too confusing, so Tara just decides not to think about it.

 

She does a good job not thinking.

\---

She doesn’t like the magazines very much.  She hadn’t really expected to like them.  She’d expected to feel the same way about them that she felt about sex: suspicious.  All the same, Tara really doesn’t like the magazines.

 

The photos are mostly of women in various poses, usually with their genitals demurely obscured by potted plants or conveniently placed towels, but sometimes totally naked.  They aren’t particularly shocking.  It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.  Sometimes the ladies are all up in each other’s business, which she guesses makes sense.  More naked girl per square-inch of paper.  She dislikes the ones where men are involved.  Those ones are definitely gross.  But for some reason, it’s the text that bothers her the most.

 

Who needs to know the hobbies of someone who’s effectively just a 2D ass for some dude to jack off to?  Isn’t it kind of weird to make these people real?  Aren’t they allowed to be fake?

 

Maybe she just doesn’t get it.  She learns more from the text than the pictures anyway.

 

_“It Happened to Me: Secrets of the Southern Lesbian Sex College **Uncovered**! (p. 15)”_

Apparently, rich girls really like doing weird shit with each other when nobody’s looking.  Like, mouth stuff.  Apparently.  Lots of it, constantly, according to one report.  The reporter, for journalism, disguised himself as a beautiful woman and got caught up in a big old classic rich girl caviar orgy.  Being the only man in the room full of lusty, caviar-covered women, he immediately became the focus of everything and it Happened to Him.

 

Somehow, Tara suspects that it didn’t actually happen.

 

Girls can do a lot of sex stuff to each other.  She’d known it abstractly, but some of these magazines are really pushing the message.  The message is: _“Plastic dicks!  Want ‘Em, Need ‘Em, Gotta Have ‘Em!”_   Carry a fake dick around with you!  Wear a fake dick under your pants and pretend you have a hard-on!  Put a fake dick in your mouth!  Use a fake dick as a paperweight!

 

 She meditates on this until someone knocks on the door, which scares her enough to stow the magazines in their dark cock prison where they belong.

\---

She feels compelled to tell Raven about her findings.  She just wants to see how she reacts.  What’s Raven’s opinion on this?  How does she feel about the lesbians and their many, many fake dicks?  Does she even know about them?  She corners Raven in the kitchen when everybody else is at the movies.  Tara had been asleep when they’d made the plans, and Raven had thought the movie looked dumb, but everyone else is gone.

 

“Romance novels aren't about sex, but porno magazines are,” Tara says, setting the mood.  Raven looks up from her book and stares at her blankly.

 

“I don't want to hear about that,” Raven says.

 

“Just thought you should know.  They've got chicks fucking each other, sometimes,” Tara says casually.    “One of them was wearing a plastic cock, and the other one was sucking on it, and I was thinking 'how is any of that fun for anyone involved,' and--”

 

“I really, really don't want to hear about that,” Raven says, shaking her head rapidly.  “Please don't tell me about fake penises anymore.”  She’s looking straight down at her book.  This subject is so offensive that Raven can’t even make eye contact when talking about it.

 

“Just thought you should know,” Tara repeats, backing away.  As soon as she’s out of Raven’s line of vision, she fucking sprints to her room and spends half an hour feeling like an idiot.

\---

In a dream.  She sees it in a dream.

 

_Tara and Raven are sitting in a wide field.  They’re arguing about Freud and Jung, or maybe about romance novels, or some other silly thing.  They aren’t actually angry.  They’re arguing because they want to hear each other’s voices.  The sunlight is golden, so the floating pollen has been set on fire._

_“When it rains dust like this, it’s called fairy lights,” Tara says._

_Raven smiles.  “I’d always wondered what that was called.  Does it only happen in the daytime?”_

_“I think so,” Tara says.  She knew something Raven didn’t know, and that’s a very nice feeling.  She wants to tell Raven more things.  “Also, some parrots can swear, but not all of them.”_

_“That makes sense,” Raven says.  “They all grow up differently, so they know different words.”_

_Tara nods.  They’re quiet for a minute._

_Raven plays with a weed-- no, a flower that’s peeking out from between stalks of tall grass.  It’s just a little dandelion, but she’s very careful with it.  Tara knows that since the day is almost done, soon it will close and stay shut until morning._

_“Dandelions sleep,” Tara says._

_Raven hums in response._

_“Is it okay?” Tara asks, a sudden pang of urgency in her chest.  “Is it okay that I’m a liar, and mean, and crazy?”_

_“Not really,” Raven says.  “You’re not supposed to lie or hurt people.”_

_“I can’t help it,” Tara says.  “It’s my inheritance, so it’s just how I am.  I’m like a bug,” she adds, even though she doesn’t know what that means._

_“No,” Raven says simply.  “You’re like a dandelion.”_

_“We both sleep,” Tara says._

_“You both shut down,” Raven says.  “Look, it’s nighttime.”_

_It’s nighttime.  The moon is out.  Raven looking at Tara inquisitively._

_“Why am I bad?” Tara asks, even though she knows the answer.  “How come I can’t be childish?  How come I’m stuck with adult love when everyone else gets to be stupid?”_

_“I don’t know the answers to any of those questions,” Raven says.  “When you have to kill me, what will you do?”_

_“I…”  Tara knows the answer to this question, too.  She’s wallowing in cold shame.  “I don’t have a gun here.  There aren’t any hills for rocks to fall from, and the building’s too strong for an earthquake to take it down.  You’re strong, but when you’re meditating, I can catch you off-guard.  I’ll probably have to use blunt force.  It’s gonna be messy.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Raven says.  “Will you miss me, at least?”_

_“No,” Tara says, willing her voice not to break.  “There are ghost moths out,” she says shakily.  “They’re doing that thing.  The-- the dance.”_

_“Lekking,” Raven says.  “It’s called lekking.”_

_“I knew that.”  Their white wings are glowing in the moonlight as they flutter gracelessly, like pieces of shredded paper falling to the ground.  “Soon it’ll start smelling bad.  That’s how they attract the females.  They, uh, die pretty soon after that.”_

_“Romantic,” Raven says.  Tara doesn’t know if she’s being sarcastic.  Raven says most things in the same tone of voice.  “You’re smarter than people think you are.”_

_“I only know about bugs and rocks and killing things,” Tara says.  “You taught me about those psychology guys, and you tried to show me how to meditate.”_

_“You’re smarter than you think you are,” Raven says, and suddenly they’re sitting much closer together.  The field is so quiet that Tara can hear the rustling of the moths’ wings._

_“Thanks for believing in me,” Tara says.  “Even though you know everything about me is fake.”_

_Suddenly Raven’s leaning forward, resting her arms on Tara’s shoulders.  Instinctively, Tara wraps her arms around Raven’s waist in a loose embrace.  They fall back into the grass.  Raven’s hair is like a dark curtain._

_“Romance isn’t always fake,” Raven says, and Tara feels a sense of fuzzy déjà vu.  Slowly, she lifts herself up on her elbows and tilts her head slightly.  They share breath._

_Tara kisses her.  It’s slow and gentle.  Raven’s hand finds Tara’s and rests just by it, so their fingers are hardly touching on the cool dirt.  The ghost moths keep lekking._

_When Tara draws back, Raven smiles at her again.  Her eyes are soft.  “Was that fake?” she asks._

Tara wakes up.  She’s at the compound.  Slade’s not here.  He probably left after she fell asleep.  Sometimes he waits, because he knows that she sleeps easier with company.  He’s considerate that way.

 

Tara stumbles out of bed and pulls her clothes on sleepily.

 

“It was fake,” she says under her breath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^^  
> Bonus Jericho. Been thinking about tracheal surgery. Full removal of vocal chords is usually part of a tracheotomy, but IDK the extent of the damage from that childhood throat slashing, because Marv makes my obsessive research life hard. Would that boy in fact need a stoma to breathe through, or would he have a functional trachea? Marv the complications associated with tracheal surgery... I'm very tired
> 
> (btw the Make Him Gay is bc apparently they were considering making Joey gay initially, but then decided that making the pretty sensitive boy gay would be stereotyping, so they just decided to not have gay characters at all??? Years in the future Joey is Confirmed Bi but by then they've already ruined his character so hard I am only a young woman but I am as bitter as an old comic lady)
> 
> Anyhoo this bitch here's ordering a pizza at midnight so she can watch anime and drink her last hard apple cider
> 
>  **UP NEXT:** I swear those bastards do indeed disgrace that bird, and a boy has a complicated time, and in fact there is some sexual tension between two troubled young women certainly


	8. Magical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tara experiences her first love, and celebrates her birthday. It's a lot like a teen movie, you know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My reckless disregard for canon...
> 
> Since the whole premise of this initially was that I wanted to play around with one concept from the Judas Contract movie (which was mediocre at best but I still got serious feelings bc i will cry if you give me any amount of terra, i mean ANY), a few key elements of the canon relating to the comics got dumped. But I also prefer the comics to the movie??? And I Love Jericho?? So I'mma have to get creative for my Big Gay Finale, because it goes a little further into the timeline.
> 
> also I **h̵̜̩͓̙̥͠͝ͅ ̡҉̵̪͉̮̫a̵͉̤͓͖͈̼̦̮͙͢ ̷̤̬̘̘̜͙̖͙̮t͖͖̱̬̱͔̳ ̝̦̲̩͖ȩ͙̭͉͙̙̮̰͎** the way the whole "Trial of the Terminator" thing was handled. Weak explanations, Marv defending BAD BEHAVIOR really hard with all his being, Gar's total psychological breakdown being solved by eating lunch with Fucko??? You'd spent issues and issues building up on this and he was scheming and lying and miserable and then. Lunchtime with Mr. Sex Offender Solves It All~! And then shoving Terra into a pre-existing backstory to make things Personal? Not only was she an evil crazy whoreslut, she KILLED (one of) YOUR DAD(s), GARFIELD. Maybe it was in the plan all along, but it felt sudden and forced to me, an obsessive ghoul.
> 
> Anyway I'm angry and I should go to sleep and I think I only ate one meal today so maybe I should have some yogurt or something???
> 
> (also I don't like Lilith's flying boyfriend but that's beside the point)

Tara concludes that her dream about Raven must have a deep, complicated meaning to it.  Unfortunately, she can’t figure out what that meaning is, since she only understands like three percent of the Freud stuff (sex, blah blah blah, killing things, blah blah, repressed emotions, blah, fixations, blah blah blah), and absolutely none of the Jung stuff.  She’s pretty sure that it’s some kind of symbolic shit, since there’s no reason for her to just dream about making out with Raven while a bunch of bugs watch.

 

She shrugs it off and keeps on doing what she’s good at.  She hurls some rocks.  She punches a guy and says something sassy.  She watches Gar’s favorite movies and makes fun of them (It’s a bad idea to do that.  When Vic hears Gar’s favorite movies being criticized, he goes into full defense mode).

 

She vows to never tell anybody about the dream, ever.  For some reason, it seems both sacred and obscene.  There’s no way she’s going to let anyone know about it.

\---

“Raven,” she says, when they’re the only two people in the humming elevator.

 

“Tara,” Raven says.  Her eyes are downcast.

 

“Did I scare you?” Tara asks, looking obstinately at the shiny metal door.  “When I tried to tell you about the lesbians.”

 

“No,” Raven says.  Why does she look so sad?  Raven never looks sad.  She’s usually just blank or mildly annoyed, or sometimes embarrassed if Tara tries hard enough.  Sometimes she smiles.  But she’s never _sad._   “You just startled me.”

 

“Wasn’t on purpose.”  Tara considers apologizing, and decides not to.  That would be a stupid, weak thing to do.  Who apologizes for accidents?

 

“I know,” Raven says.  “You’ve been all over the place lately.  You catch me off guard a lot.”  She looks up.  “I kind of like it.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

Raven turns to look at Tara and smiles gently, even though she still looks a little sad.  “Please keep on being surprising.  I’m hard to startle.”

 

The door slides open, and Raven leaves gracefully, with the end of her cloak trailing behind her.  Tara forgets which floor she was going to.

\---

“Just saying,” Tara says.  “If they don’t want us to yell at them, then why do they keep on doing weird shit all the time?”

 

“It’s not weird,” Raven says.  “It’s bowling.”

 

Tara sighs.  “It’s weird to go bowling while you’re still wearing your costume,” she says.  “Also, isn’t it kind of suspicious for Dick to just hang around with them?”

 

“He’s wearing his disguise,” Raven says, primly folding her hands on her lap.

 

“I guess,” Tara says, because she knows this argument isn’t going to go anywhere.  Dick’s “disguise” is a ginger wig and a little mustache.  She has to admit that he can pull off facial hair better than Terry can, but that’s not a high bar.

 

“Tara.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“If something was troubling you, or you felt overwhelmed, would you tell us?”

 

A ball of ice forms in Tara’s stomach.  She smiles sweetly and nods.  “Of course,” she says.  “Who else do I have to talk to?”

 

“It’s easy to lock away unwanted emotions,” Raven says.  “It’s not as easy to keep them locked up.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“It isn’t your job to keep secrets and shoulder burdens.  Please don’t make it your job.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Tara says, because that’s the only thing she can think of.  “Yeah.”  She tries to remember if she’s wearing her lenses.  She is, isn’t she?  Raven is being suspicious of her right in front of Slade.  Is that good or bad?

 

“I don’t feel things too strongly, but I’ve had years of training,” Raven says.  “I can tell when you’re bottling things up.”

 

“No, no you can’t,” Tara says.  She can feel all her muscles tightening.  Her body is telling her to run away.  “I’m not bottling anything up.  You see how much yelling I do.”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

“I do a lot of yelling and I laugh a lot and sometimes I cry a little, but usually I’m pretty cool, you know?  You know?”  Tara nods, then shakes her head.  “I’m pretty emotionally healthy.  Thanks for your concern.  Bye.”

 

She walks away as calmly as she can.

 

_“Not impressed.”_ The words flash across her eyes.

 

“Working on it,” she mutters.

 

_“At this rate, you’ll have to”_

_“take drastic measures.”_

“I will,” Tara says through her teeth.  “I’ll make a big move within the next couple days, okay?  I’ve got something planned.”

 

_“Good.”_

 

Tara sighs in relief.

 

_“I trust you.”_

 

Tara’s heart skips a beat.  This must be attraction.

\---

In late springtime, the weather is foggy and soft.  The early morning showcases this.  Just before dawn, everything is cast in shades of charcoal powder.  Raven is breathing steadily, and Tara is barely awake enough to realize where she is.  Everything is pillowy and quiet.  Nothing in the world feels wrong.

 

How can someone with such cold skin be so warm?  Does Raven just absorb heat like a lizard?  Lizard Raven.  That’s so cute.  Tara smiles to herself.  Lizard with black feathers.  They keep saying it; in the paper, some people thought birds could be descended from dinosaurs.  Raven is a dinosaur.  Cute.  Are dinosaurs warm?

 

Tara buries her face in Raven’s feathers-- hair-- and breathes deeply.  She doesn’t even consider what a weird thing that is to do.  Tara wants feathers.  Having feathers would be so nice.  Raven smells like old paper and some kind of burnt herb.  Herbs.  Parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme.  There are so many different herbs.  Who can remember all of them?  Does Raven know all of them?  What a weirdo.

 

Tara gently kisses the back of Raven’s head.  What a silly person, who knows so much and has feathers.

 

Raven shifts in her arms, and looks at her.  She’s awake?  What’s she doing, being awake?  It’s dumb to be awake.

 

“You’re a dinosaur,” Tara says, and smiles.  Raven doesn’t seem to understand.  Tara doesn’t mind that.  She hugs Raven tightly and tucks her head under her chin.  She just wants as much of them to be touching as possible, because that’s good.  Dinosaurs.

 

Tara can feel Raven’s heartbeat and the movement of her chest as she breathes.  She hopes Raven can feel the same from her.  She wants to share that.

 

She dreams about a rain of soft black feathers.

\---

“Unbelievable!” someone says.

  
Tara jolts awake, and realizes with horror that she’s clinging onto Raven like a lesbian sex pervert.  She tries to make her escape, but they’re so tangled up that she bumps her head on Raven’s chin and they both fall off the couch.

 

“Se-- sex pervert!” Tara gasps.  “Raven’s a sex pervert!”

 

“What?” Raven asks, rubbing her sore jaw.  “I’m not the one who was rubbing up against you like some kind of--“

 

“Have you read today’s newspaper!?” Kory asks.  She’s wearing her grannie nightgown and a pair of fluffy slippers shaped like ducklings.  She looks terrifying.

 

“I was asleep,” Raven says.

 

“She was busy being a pervert,” Tara says.

 

“The things they say about Superman and the Martian Manhunter…” Kory says, practically smoking with fury.  “Unforgiveable!”

 

“Can I see?” Raven asks, reaching for the paper crumpled in Kory’s fist.  She skims it and her eyebrows lower.  “That’s awful.  I understand the point, but--“

 

“What is the point?” Kory asks, crossing her arms.  “It…  nonsense, absolute offensive nonsense.  There is no way that any humans can-- can--“ she just throws her arms up in the air and groans.  A picture of Brion flashes in Tara’s head.  “Stupid,” Kory finishes, teeth clenched.

 

“It’s hurtful,” Raven says.  “But it’s just an op-ed.  It doesn’t mean a lot of people feel this way.”

 

“’Uninvited visitors,’” Kory mutters.  “As if they had a choice.”

 

Tara watches this exchange quietly.  Somehow she has a suspicion that this isn’t about Superman and Martian Manhunter.  How did Kory get to Earth, anyway?  She knows that there was a big mess around it.  It was the Titans’ dramatic debut.

 

Everyone was so young.  Kory must have only been… what, fifteen?  Gar would have only been twelve when that happened.

 

_Tara_ was only twelve when that happened.  She was in Markovia.  It could only have been a little bit before or after…

 

That.  That, with the bleeding ears.

 

Donna wouldn’t have been much older than Tara.  _Donna._   Was she as grown-up as she is now?  Or, no, she couldn’t have been.  Donna is still so naïve, so she must have just been a baby then.  How could she have managed to take care of herself?  How could any of them?  Living in the Tower without any adult supervision.  What a mess.

 

“Look, there’s no way they can just send you off the planet.  You don’t have anything to worry about,” Raven says, patting Kory’s back.  Kory sniffles a little.  She’s part-angry and part-sad, or maybe entirely both.  Kory can fit a lot of feelings into herself.

 

“I am not afraid,” Kory says, wiping her nose.  “I just thought humans were beyond that.”

 

“Nobody’s always better than anybody, Kory,” Raven says.  She looks tired.  “’All good’ and ‘all bad’ don’t really exist in this world.”

 

“I know,” Kory says.  “But I _want_ them to.”

 

Tara just stands there awkwardly.  All good, all bad.  They don’t exist.  It’s all about who has the money, who’s in charge of who.  The powerful people are the ones who make the laws.  Somehow, though, she thinks this mindset doesn’t match with theirs.

 

“Maybe you could… write a letter,” Raven says. 

 

“On Tamaran, we would have fought the author.  It would have been solved swiftly,” Kory says.

 

Tara buries her head under a pillow and breathes in the smell of polyester.

\---

Tara’s lenses itch.  She hasn’t done anything worth watching today, so she probably shouldn’t even be wearing them.  All the same, she feels obligated to.  Working with Slade is a big deal, and right now, he doesn’t seem to think she’s meeting his standards, so itchy lenses are the least of her problems.

 

Drastic measures.  She has to take drastic measures.  What drastic measures can she take?  Raven’s trust isn’t something she can just chase down and grab like a loose spider.  Raven is smart, but she’s also fragile, and if Tara screws up halfway through winning her over, then she’s not going to get a second chance.

 

She just needs to do something that will cement her completely as a member of the team.  She’s already nestled in pretty comfortably, but Slade doesn’t think that’s enough.  She has to do something big and dramatic.  If only something terrible happened so she could rescue everybody.  Maybe she could _make_ something terrible happen, and then rush in to save the day.  Or, no.  She’d be too focused on keeping whatever terrible thing she brewed up working, so she wouldn’t be able to save everyone.  Or, she’d save everyone, and then they’d figure her out.  What if--

 

“What's that?” Raven asks, successfully spooking the hell out of her.  Tara realizes with horror that she’s pulled one of her lenses out of her eye.  She must have done it unconsciously.  How did she let herself do that?

 

“Contact lens,” Tara says.  She might as well be honest about that.  “Can't leave them in too long. It's bad for you.”

 

“I didn't know you had bad eyesight,” Raven says. Tara forms a fist around the lens.  She can’t let her investigate this.  Fuck. “Most people with contacts also have glasses, so they don't have to be blind in between... lens shifts.”

 

“Too vain,” Tara says. “Anyway, glasses don't match my image. I'm a rough-and-tumble kind of gal, you know?”  She’s got to keep her brand consistent, after all.

 

“I know,” Raven says. “How come--”

 

“Oh no,” Tara interrupts, holding up her index finger. “I just got my period. Right now. This is happening.”

 

She makes her escape to the bathroom, and re-places her lens.  She’s getting sloppy.  At this rate, Raven will figure her out in no time.

 

Maybe she should fake being on her period for the rest of the week and see what happens.

\---

“Coo, coo,” Changeling says flatly.

 

“Indeed,” Raven answers.

 

There are five pigeon people robbing the bank-- no, five people in pigeon costumes.  Their beaks don’t move when they talk.  What a scam.  They all have fancy ray guns and are swaggering around like they own the world.

 

Anyway, Terra’s not totally sure what she’s supposed to do, since everyone’s already grabbed a civilian and started running.  She can’t see any other bystanders, so instead she throws a rock at the biggest pigeon and calls him a dickless pile of feathers, and that makes him mad so they do some fighting.

 

Soon enough, the civilians have been safely removed and the other Titans are free to be as chaotic as they want (except they’re supposed to limit property damage.  How’s Terra going to go all-out if she’s not allowed to smash some teller windows?).

 

Non-lethal fighting is fun, actually.  When she fights to kill, Terra knows to just go for the weakest parts of a person.  Throat, eye, solar plexus, anywhere squishy and penetrable.  If you can’t kill them, disable them, and if you can’t disable them, just make them hurt so much they can’t move.  The Titans’ll go for a solar plexus now and then, but they do their best to avoid permanent damage.  If they think they’ve gone too far, they even have Raven heal the bad guys once they’re tied up.  It’s annoyingly moral, but Terra finds herself putting a lot more thought into her attacks.  For example:

 

If a large man in a pigeon suit is shooting pink rays at you, first you dodge those, and then you try to get behind him.  He’s obviously not used to wearing big costumes, so he’s clumsier than the average person.  His weak points are the backs of his knees.  If you hit them right, he’ll just fall right over and you can detain him with zip-ties or handcuffs or high-tech magical rubber bands or whatever you have on hand.  His legs will hurt, but if you do it right, you shouldn’t cause any permanent damage.  If he tries to shoot you again, you say “no” very firmly and take his gun because you’re a superhero, and you get to do that.

 

In another lifetime, Terra would have just smashed his head in.  It would have been over in five seconds.  Cleanup would have been a bitch, but it would still have been much simpler.

 

“Good job!” Wonder Girl calls over her shoulder.  Terra catches herself smiling, and it’s not just because she enjoys fighting.

 

The Titans’ non-lethal fighting style is theatrical and almost cartoonish.  They really are superheroes through-and-through.  Hearts of gold and all that shit.

 

They’re too cowardly to kill, but also brave enough to step out in public.  They make scenes on purpose, for free, instead of making shady deals in quiet diners, with unlikeable people who they know will pay well.  She still doesn’t understand it, even if she enjoys it.  Is it… is it a PR thing?  Do the Titans act silly and dramatic so that people won’t be afraid of them?  Because if they wanted to be, they could be scary as hell.  Their abilities outclass a lot of the mercs and thieves and hitmen that Terra’s met during her various contracts.  At the same time, they still have backup plans and escape routes and secret contacts.  If they just had the guts to kill their enemies, they…

 

Shit.

 

Terra realizes, suddenly, why Slade is so wary of them.

 

If the Titans were willing to kill, they would rule the city.  Separated, they probably wouldn’t be able to do much, but when they’re together, their combined knowledge and instincts and abilities are so diverse that they could crush anyone who even looked at them funny.  Their togetherness is what makes them dangerous.

 

Do they know that?  When they’re giggling over bad jokes and eating ice cream and playing in the woods like children, do they know how deadly they are?

 

“Terra, are you okay?” Cyborg calls, shaking her out of her stupor.  She gives him a big thumbs-up and a cheesy grin.  That seems to satisfy him.

 

The rest of the fight goes smoothly.  Terra tries not to think too hard about her realization, because for some reason it makes her feel dizzy. 

 

All five pigeon robbers are bound and indignant.  Their giant masks have been removed and laid next to them, and it’s a little grotesque, because it looks like a pile of severed bird heads.  Wonder Girl is injured.  Raven is carefully assessing her wound, brushing over it with long fingers.  Cyborg is nervously grinning at a reporter as he says something about city funding, and Starfire is crouched on the sidewalk happily watching a beetle crawl along.  Changeling joins her, and they strike up a conversation, eyes still locked on the beetle.

 

The press is here.  The microphone lady and the cameraman and all the reporters.  There are more microphone people and camerapeople, actually.  Today must have been a slow day before this robbery happened, and now they’re all convening at the site of the excitement.

 

_“At this rate, you’ll have to”_

_“take drastic measures.”_

Tara realizes that now is the time to make her big move.  She hadn’t actually had anything planned, but a vague idea is forming in her head, and this is a life-or-death scenario.

 

“Hey!  Changeling!”  Terra calls.  He looks up and she gestures for him to come over.

 

“What’s up?” he asks, jogging up to her.  “Is everything okay?”

 

“Better than okay,” she says.

 

That’s when she kisses him.

 

At that moment, time becomes distorted.  Kissing him isn’t half bad, even though he looks shocked and makes a little panic noise.  He figures out what’s going on in a second and kisses back, tilting his head slightly and grabbing her hand.  Tara can hear a cacophony of camera shutters, and smoothly blended voices.  Gar’s teeth are a little pointier than Slade’s, and his skin is smooth.  He breaks the kiss, and stares at her.  He’s blushing darkly, and she can almost see stars in his eyes.

 

“I didn’t think…” he says.

 

“Dummy,” she says.

 

He smiles.  She smiles.  The cameras keep flashing.

\---

_Tara was getting better every day.  Dr. Jace was proud of her, and Viktor was proud of her (not that she cared).  They’d figured out that she did best with igneous rocks, but Markovia wasn’t a particularly volcano-rich country.  That was fine, because Tara was good with other rocks, too, and everyone was proud of her, and she was great._

_It wasn’t as tiring anymore, either.  Tara could manipulate rocks for fun, while doing other things.  She tripped Brion in the garden by upending a cobblestone, and he was a little mad, but he had to admit that it was cool._

_Dr. Jace showed them some drawings of matching costumes, and Tara let Brion pick, because he was the one who was excited about them.  Tara didn’t understand why it was so important for them to have silly leotards and code names, but Dr. Jace said that it was patriotic to wear the national colors while doing impressive things.  Brion seemed to agree, but Tara still wasn’t sold._

_“I hope our powers match,” he said one day.  They were sitting on that same stone wall by that same hedge maze, but it didn’t feel strange anymore.  Tara’s feet touched the ground now._

_“Fat chance,” Tara replied.  “You’ll wind up being stretchy and I’ll have to use you to tie people up.”_

_“If you are tying and I am a rope, we are complimentary,” Brion said smugly._

_“Gregor shouldn’t have let you have that dictionary.”_

_“I am becoming very conversant.”_

_“What the heck is a conversant?”_

_“It means I know things.”_

_Tara blew a raspberry and shoved him off the wall.  “You’re not allowed to know more English words than me.  I’m the American one, remember?”_

_“I suppose,” Brion said, brushing the dust off his khaki dress pants.  “It doesn’t feel like it has been that long since you came here.”_

_“It feels like a long time to me,” Tara said.  “I can’t even pretend I don’t understand what people are saying anymore.  They see right through me.”_

_“It’s what happens when you lie too much,” Brion said, hoisting himself back onto the wall.  “Do you remember when you arrived?”_

_“Not really,” Tara says.  She remembered the context of her arrival.  Mama.  Sleeping pills, airplanes.  She remembered how she felt.  Angry and sad and itching in her stiff new clothes.  “You promised to be my emergency asset brother, even if I didn’t join the family.”_

_“Did I do a good job?” Brion asked, and his voice was just a little anxious.  “As an emergency asset?”_

_“You’re my brother,” Tara said quietly, staring at the ground.  “This is my family.  Even though.”_

_She knows he knows what comes after “even though.”  They’re quiet for a while.  A little bird was hopping around in the dirt cheerfully.  Tara recognized it.  It was a Eurasian wren.  Viktor had told her._

_She never saw a wren quite like that in America.  In Markovia, there weren’t any blue jays._

_Maybe if one showed up on the other’s turf, they’d fight._

_“When I said ‘emergency asset,’” Brion said.  “I meant to say ‘reserve’ or ‘backup’ or something like that.  I didn’t know what words to say.”_

_“I like ‘emergency asset,’” Tara said, still watching the wren.  She wanted stay still, so it wouldn’t fly away.  Birds were always so shy, so it felt miraculous whenever one was brave enough to be so close to her.  “Is there anything at the center of the hedge maze?”_

_“There used to be a fountain,” Brion said.  “When I was very little.  But we neglected it, so it became broken.”_

_“Just ‘it broke’ is fine.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_“Hey.”  Tara kept on watching the bird.  It looked wary now.  “Do I love you?”_

_Brion was silent for a moment.  “I hope so,” he said.  “But you’re the one who should know that.  Right?”_

_“I guess,” Tara said, and she smiled to break the tension.  “Your turn with Dr. Jace is coming up.  Are you excited?”_

_“Of course!” Brion grinned widely.  “Soon, we can be cool heroes together!”_

_“Yeah,” Tara said.  She still wasn’t sure what the connotations of being a hero were.  The way people talked about it, it seemed kind of like it was just for show.  “You won’t be very cool,” she added._

_“I will be!”_

_“You’ll nerd up the whole thing, and the whole lab will get less cool because of you.”_

_“I’ll be the best!  You know that!  I’m already cool, so powers will just make me cooler!”_

_“What if they’re fire powers?”_

_Brion made his noise, but he fell to the side instead of backwards, because there was a rose bush behind them._

_Everything in that moment was golden.  Tara knew it couldn’t last.  After all, most people were still either bad or stupid or both, and sometimes she felt a strange bulging anxiety in her chest that she couldn’t find a reason for.  But at that time, even though she had scars, nothing was bleeding.  She wasn’t in a world she’d chosen, but that peace was enough._

_A week later, she ruined everything._

_\---_

They head home laughing and chatting.  Changeling wants Terra to hold his hand, so she holds it.  It’s not a bad feeling at all.  She should hold hands with people more often.  He keeps on looking at her and smiling.  She guesses it makes sense.  He’s had a crush on her since, like, forever, so now she’s basically making his dreams come true. 

 

It’s really gonna hurt him when she gets them, isn’t it?

 

Maybe… maybe she should kill him first, so that he doesn’t have to watch.  Or-- no, no, no!!!  She should be focusing on what she’s doing _now_ , instead of what she’ll be doing later!

 

Right now, she’s walking in a group of her friends, and the air smells like salt and there are seagulls calling.  Right now, she’s holding hands with her new boyfriend, and she’s over the moon because her hidden feelings have come into fruition.  That’s the story.  It’s a nice, happy story, where no one gets ripped up.  Isn’t that enough?

 

Immediately after they get back to the tower, everybody bombards Gar and Tara with questions and congratulations.  Kory hugs them both.  Dick, who was not present during the big moment, is confused, but joins in the congratulations, if a little hesitantly.  Raven sulks in the corner.  Typical Raven.

 

“And I’d been telling Gar to give up on chasing you,” Vic says, giving Tara friendly punch on the shoulder.  It hurts a little, because he’s made of metal.

 

“Well, _I’d_ been telling Gar to give up on chasing me too, so it’s not like you’re alone,” Tara says, squeezing Gar’s hand.  He looks kind of dizzy.  Happy, but dizzy.

 

They order Chinese food to celebrate, because that way nobody has to cook and nobody has to do dishes.  Tara’s fortune cookie tells her that wise people keep their mouths shut.  She almost teases Gar about grabbing the wrong cookie, but she doesn’t, because now he’s her boyfriend.  Instead, she leans over his shoulder and reads his fortune out loud: “Good things come to those who wait.”

 

They dance to bad pop music, and Tara doesn’t make fun of it.  She has fun listening to it.  Dick teases them and tells them how cute they are, and they just agree.  They spend the whole evening acting silly without repercussions, and everybody supports it.  There’s a lot of hugging and Dick kisses both of them on the cheek (which Tara is prepared for now, because he’s already gotten her once).  Vic says they’ll have hideous children, and Gar throws a balled-up piece of newspaper at him.

 

It’s a pity, what boyfriends and girlfriends have to do.  She could almost like this setup.

\---

It’s quiet.  Even Raven has wandered off to do the things that Raven does (which, as always, are a mystery). 

 

“Hey,” Gar says a little sleepily.  They’re slouched up against each other on the couch.  It’s not quite as nice as sneaking up and falling asleep on Raven, but that’s probably because Tara has to be more careful when the other person is awake.

 

“’Sup?” Tara asks.  “If you want food, you get it.  ‘m not moving.”

 

“I’m just happy,” he says.  “I didn’t think you liked me.  We were always fighting.”

 

“You won,” Tara says.  “Me over, I mean.  You won me over.”

 

“I’m pretty charming.”

 

“Yeah, that.  I won’t complain when you say that anymore, or when you get all touchy.”  Tara grins.  “Congrats.”

 

“I mean, you can complain if you want,” Gar says.  He’s tensed up a little.

 

“Don’t wanna,” Tara yawns.  “Burned out, you know?  Basically up for anything else.”

 

“Well, that’s good, I guess,” Gar says.  He doesn’t sound tired anymore.  He just sounds worried.  “Any ideas about what to do next?”

 

Tara kisses him, and he makes that startled sound again.  He shakes his head and she draws back.

 

“I mean, that’s fine,” he says.  “But, uh, you’re acting weird.”

 

“What’s weird?” she asks.  She tries to suppress the irritation in her voice.  “I’m trying to be nice.”

 

“You’re acting weird,” he repeats. “Like, you’re not acting like you.”

 

“You’re just used to me being mean,” she says.  “Now, I’ll do whatever, so you don’t have to try an’ get me anymore.”

 

“I like you, though,” he says quietly.

 

“I know,” she says, and she can’t help but laugh a little at that.  “You’ve made it pretty obvious, so now I’m gonna let you do whatever, ‘kay?”  She kisses him again to emphasize the point.

 

He still doesn’t seem satisfied.

\---

She’s having a formal TV interview.  She’s in-costume, of course, so the makeup people don’t get to do much with her face, but they do fluff her hair up and spray it with all kinds of weird-smelling fixatives.  They ask her to unzip her costume partway so they can hide the microphone’s wire, but she says “no” very firmly, and because she’s a superhero, they listen.  Superheroes can get away with that.

 

They sit her down on a couch by a pretty, friendly-looking woman in her late forties, who seems to be the host of the program.  Terra doesn’t know her name, and she’s kind of afraid that she’ll have to ask for it in front of the camera.  The studio audience rustles and chatters.

 

The producer counts down from just out of the camera’s view, silently lowering his fingers.  The lights come on, blindingly, and inspirational, upbeat music plays.  The audience claps and cheers.  The host lady smiles.

 

“Welcome to Myrna’s Couch,” she says.  “Today we have with us Terra, a Teen Titan and our city’s resident geokinetic.  It’s an honor to have you on the show, Terra.”

 

“My pleasure,” Terra says.  She hopes that this lady is Myrna.  She’s going to call her Myrna.

 

“So, let’s get down to business,” Myrna says.  The audience cheers.  Maybe that’s her catchphrase.  “What’s it like being an actual superhero?  It’s a career a lot of kids dream up and a lot of adults fantasize about.  I’m asking for a friend.”  She winks and the audience laughs.

 

“Good fighting,” Tara says, because she is afraid and incapable of forming complete thoughts.  “Paperwork too, though.”

 

“I guess even superheroes need to do their taxes,” Myrna says, shrugging.  The audience chuckles lightly.  “You’re the newest member of the Titans, but you seem to fit in perfectly with them.  Even if we’re still mourning the loss of Robin and Kid Flash--" the audience sighs forlornly-- “It’s always exciting to watch the rise of a new hero.  You know, you’re right behind Changeling in the popularity survey results.”

 

“I didn’t know there were surveys,” Terra says.  “Is there a… a fanbase?”

 

Myrna laughs out loud, and the audience laughs with her.  There’s so much laughing in this studio.  “Isn’t she sweet?” Myrna asks.  “Anyway, speaking of Changeling, you threw us for a loop yesterday after you stopped the Columba Quintet.  There’s always talk among the fans of potential love stories going on behind the scenes-- we all know about Wonder Girl and Cyborg-- but you brought it all into the public eye!”

 

On the large screen behind them, there’s a shockingly detailed closeup shot of Terra and Changeling kissing.  On the one hand, it’s a flattering picture, but on the other, Terra really doesn’t want a picture like that circulating.  Or… she does, maybe?  She should lean into it.  Wait, people think something is going on between Vic and Donna?  No, she doesn’t have time for that.

 

“Huh,” she says, feigning innocence.  “I didn’t know they caught that.”  There were like a billion cameras there.  Terra did it for the cameras.  She had intended for them to catch that.

 

“The heat of the moment,” Myrna says fondly.  “You collectively captured the hearts of half the city with that kiss.  We’d seen the chemistry, but we hadn’t known that your feelings ran this deep.  Can you tell me a little about your relationship with Changeling?”

 

Terra stares for a second before clenching her fists.  This is it.  This is the image she needs to send to the public.  She’s going to be a smitten teenager, young and innocent.

 

“I...” Terra says softly, averting her eyes.  “That’s embarrassing, though…”

 

“Oh, you don’t need to be scared of me.  Just talk to Auntie Myrna.”  The audience giggles.

 

“Well, you know…” Terra says.  “I didn’t want to like him that way.  I just wanted to be strong and protect the city.”  She hugs herself and smiles shyly.  “But he was always so nice to me, even when I was new and clumsy.  And I…  I’m not good at hiding my feelings,” she says.  “I thought I could just be a hero without being a girl too.  I guess I was wrong about that.”  She grins and the audience chuckles.

 

“Isn’t that always how it is?” Myrna asks, smiling warmly.  “How long have you had these feelings for him?”

 

“I just... I don't know, gosh!” Terra giggles and ducks down, covering her face with one of her hands.  This is to imply blushing.  “I mean, I always kinda liked him, but I had to play hard-to-get, you know? Gee, I... I think I realized I was in _love_ with him when we went on this camping trip together.”  Terra peeks up from behind her fingers to read Myrna’s face.  She’s buying it.  Terra continues.  “We sat under a pine tree and talked for hours. He actually tried to kiss me then, but I got embarrassed.”  That part’s true, at least.  A toast to honesty.

 

“Is this your first relationship?” Myrna asks.

 

“In junior high I made up a boyfriend so the other girls would think I was cool,” Terra says, fidgeting with her stiff hair.  Bull~shit.  She never went to junior high, or regular high.  She spent those years learning how to kill people and fuck real good.  Yeah, bullshit, definitely.  “Does that count?”

 

They share a good laugh.

 

“Was that really your first kiss with Changeling, in front of the city bank? Or have you two been keeping this a secret?” Myrna asks, a little teasingly.

 

Terra averts her eyes. “It was my first kiss ever,” she says sweetly.  Terra is a cute teenage girl.  She’s relatable and idealistic.  She’s wholesome.  Virginal.  “It was the adrenaline, I think. It made me braver than I usually am.”

 

“Well, how was it?” Myrna asks.  “Your first kiss.”

 

A first kiss is confusion.  Confused leads to angry, but you can’t do anything when you’re trapped.  When someone’s hand is in your hair, it hurts to move, and when someone is pressed up against you all you do is squirm.  A first kiss lets you know what your options are.  It tells you that this is the direction things are going in, and that’s not a bad thing, and you should have considered it beforehand.

 

A first kiss is a contract.

 

“It’s hard to explain,” Terra says, smiling dreamily.  “The only word I can think of is ‘magical.’”

\---

“So, what do you think?” she asks.  “I’ve got a boyfriend now.  We kiss in front of cameras.”

 

Slade nods.  “I’m glad to see you finally took my advice,” he says.  “You’ve really got him wrapped around your finger, haven’t you?”

 

“Yeah, basically,” Tara says proudly.  “Are you jealous?”

 

“Not really.” 

 

“Why not?” Tara asks, and she’s not able to hide that she’s a little annoyed.  Nobody likes it when their somethings run around with other people, even if it is planned out beforehand.  Tara would be jealous.

 

“Don’t make that face,” Slade says, smiling slightly.  “It’s because I know it’s only a game.”  He pats her head, and she smiles back at him.  She likes the implication that what they’re doing together _isn’t_ a game.  It makes everything feel more secure.

 

“He kisses like a grandma,” Tara adds, just to make it clear that she’s not got some kind of emotional attachment to Gar.  An emotional attachment would definitely be a problem, right?

 

Maybe she should fake that.  As a test.  Or, no.  That’s a terrible idea.  She’d either get scolded for being silly or punished for being bad, and she doesn’t want either of those things.  Slade’s usually nice, but when she makes him mad on purpose, then things go south real fast.

 

“How about Cyborg and Raven?”

 

“He’s gotten nicer since I started dating Gar, actually.  Maybe it’s because Gar’s gotten happier?”  Tara starts to chew her thumbnail absentmindedly, but then she tastes nail polish and stops.  It really does work.  “All three of us went to the arcade the other day.  Vic is really good at those shooting games.”  Tara doesn’t mention avoiding all the mascot-themed merchandise, and she doesn’t mention feeling a little sick when Duck Dude asked why she was being such a Sour Susan.  “The music they play in that place is has really explicit lyrics,” she says instead.  “It’s supposed to be for kids, but half the songs are about bird sex.”

 

“Not everybody picks up on those things,” Slade says.  “Maybe it’s for the parents.  I noticed that Raven saw your lenses.”  Suddenly, his casual demeanor is gone.

 

“Oh, that,” Tara says.  “Uh, I think I tricked her fine.  She believed me about them being regular contacts, so everything is okay.”

 

“What else are you going to do about this?”

 

“I’ll pretend to lose one,” Tara says.  “And I’ll act as though I can’t see.”

 

“What else?”

 

“I’ll start asking her about things she likes, so she won’t think about me being weird.”

 

“Not perfect, but good enough.”

 

“Hey, that’s all anyone can ask for, right?”  Tara shrugs.  Slade smiles at her and she feels proud.  This is attraction.

\---

 “Hey, Tara.”  Donna lays a hand on Tara’s arm as she’s trying to escape doing the dishes.  She has a chocolate bar in her hoodie pocket and she just wants some alone time with it before she has to do chores or socialize.

 

“Yeah?” Tara asks, hoping that whatever Donna has to say isn’t about the dishes.  The dishes can wait.  Tara hates the dishes.

 

“Can we talk?” Donna asks, smiling slightly.

 

“Yeah,” Tara repeats.  This is weird, and she doesn’t like it.  She slowly pulls her chocolate bar out of her pocket and takes a bite.  Alone time might not be an option now.

 

“Great,” Donna says, turning down the radio.  “How are things going with Gar?”

 

“They’re… going,” Tara says.  “It’s only been like four days.  I mean, we’re having fun, I think, but we’re not, like, married.”

 

“That’s the thing,” Donna says.  “I know you had kind of a chaotic childhood--” Rude. “--and, well, I wasn’t sure you’d covered this topic in school, so I just wanted to check in.”

 

“’Kay…?”

 

“Tara, what do you think of the song that’s playing on the radio right now?” Donna asks.  She looks very nervous.

 

“It’s a catchy song,” Tara says.  Now she’s nervous.  What’s happening?  Was that the wrong answer?  Should she not want to rock and roll ‘til the break of dawn?

 

“Interesting,” Donna says, nodding.  “Is it just me, or does this song imply that you need to have sex to be cool?”

 

Tara nearly chokes on her chocolate bar.

 

“So much media today is encouraging teens to have sex,” Donna says.  “Did you know that eighty-seven percent of teens say that they’re pledging abstinence?”

 

“That’s nice,” Tara says.  How can she escape from this?  Where did Donna get that statistic?  Can’t they all just let her be?

 

“Judging by those numbers, I bet the coolest teens are waiting until marriage,” Donna says.  “What do you think?”

 

“Good for them,” Tara says, trying to regain her composure.  “I’m gonna leave now.”

 

“Not until we’ve talked this over,” Donna says, stepping around to block Tara’s escape route.  “I know that it’s really exciting to be in a new relationship, but I just want to make sure that you and Gar don’t make any mistakes.”

 

“We won’t,” Tara says.  “I have, uh, homework.  You know.”  Lately, they’ve been making her do geometry worksheets and read about the Civil War, because apparently, fighting crime isn’t enough.  Tara’s got a seventh-grade education, and she doesn’t appreciate being plunged face-first into Dick’s twisted world of homeschooling.  Right now, though, geometry sounds a lot better than getting a lecture.

 

“Talking with me is your homework tonight,” Donna says.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  “You can’t take this lightly.”

 

“I don’t,” Tara says.  She can feel herself heating up all over, like she’s got a fever.  She doesn’t like where this is going.

 

“Your love is… like a rose,” Donna says.  She seems to be quoting something.  “You can’t cut the rose before it blossoms.”

 

“’Kay,” Tara says suspiciously.  She has no idea what that means.

 

“At your age…” Donna continues, taking a deep breath.  “You aren’t emotionally or physically ready to do that.  It doesn’t matter how much you like someone.  The first time you have sex should be special, and--“

 

Suddenly, Tara is laughing.  She can’t breathe.  That’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard.

 

Donna puts her hands on her hips.  “Be serious!  You might think it’s no big deal, but losing your virginity is--“

 

_It’s long gone, sweetheart.  It’s super-dead, lying out by the docks._   Tara covers her mouth and tries to calm herself down, but it won’t stop.  She’s laughing so hard that tears are flowing down her face.  She feels a little nauseated.

 

“Look, if you’re not going to take this seriously, then you’re not ready for any kind of romantic relationship,” Donna says.  Now, there’s a hint of desperation in her voice.  “Just listen to me for a minute.”

 

“Nah,” Tara manages to say through a flood of painful giggles.  “I’ve gotta eat this chocolate.  Later.”

 

She ducks around Donna and runs like hell until she’s reached the elevator, and then the roof.  Luckily, nobody is around.  It takes a few minutes for her to calm down.  After that, she just feels kind of drained and wobbly.

 

She hopes she wasn’t suspicious.  It’s normal to laugh when you’re just embarrassed about sex, right?  She’ll tell Donna later.  She’ll say, “I was just embarrassed” and that will be the end of this.  It’s normal.  Everything is normal.

 

Tara wishes, for some reason, that Raven were here with her.  Raven would ask what happened, listen to Tara’s lie, not believe it, and then calmly sit next to her without asking any more questions.  That’s what Tara wants right now.  Just someone to sit next to, even if that someone is the worst option.  Why is it Raven who always shows up in her head?  Why can’t it be Gar?  He’s dopey and oblivious enough to think Tara’s a good person, but Raven…  She’s so hard to trick.  Is that why Tara wants to be around her?  So she doesn’t have to try because she knows it won’t work?

 

How lazy.

 

Nothing Tara wants makes any sense.

\---

It’s maybe seven in the evening.  Tara had been trying to figure out that stupid mining game on the computer _(who the fuck is Eugene!?)_ , but looking at a screen too long wound up giving her a headache.  She still hasn’t figured out what kind of mine the little man on the screen works in.  She’s starting to wonder if she should just give up.

 

The main ops is dark.  Everyone else must be busy.  In that case, she should probably steal some yogurt or something out of the fridge and hide in her room for a while.  Think about Freud.  Who could pick Jung over Freud?  Raven is silly.  Raven knows about herbs and magic and she’s the moon.  Tara’s head hurts.

 

Suddenly, the lights flash on blindingly (holy shit), and Tara hears a loud noise that she can’t identify (holy shit), so she immediately hides behind the nearest couch because what else is someone supposed to do when that happens (holy shit)?

 

The room is silent for several seconds.  Slowly, Tara raises her head and glances over the back of the couch.  Dick is standing half-hidden by a curtain, looking deeply apologetic.  All the other Titans are peppered throughout the room in various awkward positions and locations, and they all look ashamed.  The only one who doesn’t look like a cartoon burglar caught in the act is Raven, who is standing beside a bookshelf with a flat expression.

 

“…The hell are you guys doing?” Tara asks.

 

“It’s your birthday!” Gar says, slowly un-posing himself.  Kory blows one of those little paper whistles.

 

“Oh,” Tara says.  “I forgot.”  She forgot.

 

“Well, we remembered,” Dick says. “You wrote down your birth-date when you were filling out your paperwork when you joined, remember?”

 

“Right. Paperwork.” Tara nods. “Today is my birthday.”  She pauses, unsure of what to say next.  “Yay,” she adds.  That should work.

 

“We didn't let Kory or Dick do anything to the cake, so it should probably taste fine,” Gar says, putting an arm around Tara’s shoulder.  “Vic made it.”

 

Tara is familiar with Kory’s legendary bad cooking, but not with Dick’s.  Now she’s curious.

 

Vic nods. “It was from a box, though. Three boxes. I layered it like a wedding cake, see?” It's on the counter in the kitchenette.  Tara is surprised by the amount of detail that went into it: there are three layers, all of them with different types of icing flowers and swirl patterns.  If she didn’t know better, she would have assumed it was from a bakery.  The only evidence that the Titans were involved is the big tacky candle on top.  It’s shaped like the number sixteen, and it’s neon pink.

 

“It’s really pretty,” she says.

 

“It wasn’t my idea,” Vic says quickly.  “Gar made me do it.”

  
Gar smirks.  “Isn’t he cute?”

 

“Very cute,” Tara says, unhooking Gar’s arm from around her shoulder and wandering off to think.

 

This is the first birthday she’s celebrated without Slade in a long time.  Somehow, it feels a little wrong, even though she knows she’s just following instructions.  A big part of her wants to go back to the compound and train for a while, just to make things normal again. She’s not stupid, though.  She has to pretend to have fun.

 

“Sorry there aren’t any presents,” Donna says, fidgeting with her engagement ring.  “We planned this at the last minute.  Maybe later, we can--"

 

“I don’t mind,” Tara says, shaking her head.  “It’s enough that you guys cared enough to celebrate.”

 

Off to the side, Gar is talking to Kory about something.  He looks completely serious, and she looks skeptical.

 

“No, really,” Gar says.  “You need a different one for each line.”

 

“But then why...?”

 

“It’s a mystery,” Gar says.  “It’s all about creativity.  I believe in you.”

 

“I will do my best,” Kory says, a little nervously.  “May I have a napkin to write on?”

 

“Go for it.”  Gar hands her a napkin.  “Don’t forget that they all have to be true.”

 

Raven is off in a corner, staring pensively into space.  Tara wants to bother her with questions, but she doesn’t, even though she’s wearing her contacts and she knows Slade is watching.

 

Maybe that’s _why_ she doesn’t want to bother her.

 

No, that doesn’t make any sense.

 

Everyone sings “Happy Birthday,” which is something Tara thought was reserved for elementary schoolers.  Even Raven participates.  She clasps her hands in front of her and mouths the words inaudibly, with an intense expression on her face.  It looks like it’s taking a lot of effort.  It also becomes very clear, very fast, what Gar and Kory were talking about earlier.

 

_Happy birthday to you,_

_Spotted sting rays are blue,_

_Pigeons are gray, dear Tara,_

_Secondhand cars aren’t new._

 

Tara doesn’t have the heart to make fun of her.

 

They play a couple of dumb party games.  Tara drinks like eight gallons of soda and loudly tells everyone about how much she hates the music on the radio.  She and Vic have a heated argument about disco; she says it’s dead, and he says it can be resuscitated.

 

It’s about nine when everybody starts getting tired, because the Titans are a bunch of toddlers.  Like a bunch of toddlers, everyone is in denial about being tired.  Dick tries to do card tricks.  The only one who’s impressed is Kory, and even she might just feel sorry for him.

 

Gar is overcaffeinated and stupider than ever.

 

“You got something on your face,” he says.

 

“You’ve got something on _your_ face,” Tara says.  Without waiting for him to ask what, she just says, “You got ugly on your face.  Ugly face.”

 

Gar snorts.  “You’re so mean.”

 

“I’m the fucking Birthday Girl.  I do what I want,” Tara says, falling backwards onto the couch.  She lands on one of Dick’s legs, and he yelps and scrambles away like a startled dog.  “Sorry, nerd.”

 

Dick whispers something to Donna, who giggles.  That’s a little annoying.

 

“Anyway,” Gar says.  “Happy birthday.  You’re now officially older than me.”

 

“Yup,” Tara says.  “Saccharine sixteen.  My teeth are gonna rot.”

 

“Yeah,” Gar says, joining her on the couch.  “But you’re still lucky.  You can get a driver’s license.”

 

“I just travel by rock anyway.”

 

“Yeah, but-- hey, you can legally ‘do it’ now!”  Gar nudges her and wiggles his eyebrows.  Tara makes a show of being disgusted.  It’s her birthday.  She doesn’t want to think about that.

 

“Not in this state,” Dick says, and suddenly he’s sitting between them.  He’s like a chaperoning ninja.  He glares first at Gar, then at Tara.  “The age of consent in America is sixteen at a _minimum_ , but over here it's--”

 

“It's not a school day, I don't want lessons!” Gar says, covering his ears. Tara covers up her mouth, but she laughs into her hand anyway.

 

“I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't want you to tell me,” Vic says.  He’s on his third slice of cake.  When he eats, where does that stuff go?  More stuff not to think about.

 

“We're talking about se~ex,” Gar says, stretching his arm out over Dick’s shoulder and fluttering his eyelashes like a Disney princess. “And who's allowed to ha~ave it.”

 

“Maybe it's time for you to take a nap,” Donna says.  She firmly grabs Gar’s shoulder, stands him up, and steers him out of the room.  He puts up no resistance.

 

“Bedtime for Bozo!” Tara calls as they leave the room.  Gar manages to give her a thumbs-up before disappearing into the hallway.

 

Eventually, Tara passes out on the couch.  When she wakes up the next morning, someone has put a blanket over her and propped her head up with a cushion.

 

She hopes it was Raven, for no reason in particular.

\---

Being a girlfriend isn’t actually too bad.  Tara’s read enough teen magazines (or, more accurately, the same teen magazine again and again, despite having access to newer issues) to understand the rules.  It’s not a high-pressure job.  For the most part, it seems to just be about occupying the same space as your love-target and occasionally kissing him or making him cookies.  Tara sucks at cooking, so she’ll leave that part of the girlfriend duties to Vic.  Vic was the pre-girlfriend.  He’s not getting out that easy.

 

Unfortunately, sex exists, and Tara knows it’s going to catch up to her.  Gar has always been a little too physical for her tastes, but now that they’re officially dating, he’s always got his hand on her arm or his head on her shoulder or his butt on her lap because he wanted her seat and she wasn’t about to give it to him, so maybe that was a compromise?

 

He isn’t making his move, and it’s stressing her out.  Every time they kiss for more than a second at a time, Tara waits for his hands to wander, and then they don’t.  They’ve been alone together plenty of times, but he hasn’t even made an innuendo since her birthday.  He _loves_ innuendoes.  Is something wrong?  Before they were a couple, he made it abundantly clear that he was a horny little bridge troll, but now he won’t even say “ass.”  It’s getting creepy, and the tension is killing her.

 

Maybe Donna scolded him and gave him the abstinence talk when she drove him out for naptime.

 

She’s been spending a lot more time in his room lately.  It still smells like stale chips, but Tara hasn’t been commenting on it because now she’s supposed to be nicer to him.  He’ll ramble on and on about whatever he’s excited about (Flying Ant Day!  Sunflowers!  Glam Rock!) and she’ll flop over on his bed and smile and nod until he shuts his mouth.  Every now and then she has a comment (Ants are terrible.  Russians eat a lot of sunflower seeds.  That’s when the men wear makeup and scream, right?), but it’s mostly smiling and nodding.

 

Today, it’s bottle caps.  Apparently, you can collect them.  It’s like coin collecting, only somehow even more boring.

 

“Anyway, this one’s a coke cap from the 1890s, and it has a solid cork liner, and you can see the logo says…”

 

“This one still kinda smells like beer, which is weird since it comes from a soda bottle…”

 

“Even though this says ‘Kickapoo’ on it, it’s named after a comic and it doesn’t have anything to do with the Kickapoo Indian Medicine Company, I’ve been looking for something from them _forever_ , everything they did was fake, hey, do you wanna see a really racist advertis--"

 

“Can you just _stop?”_ Tara finally asks.

 

“Huh?” Gar stops with his arm still in his bottle drawer.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“I wasn’t kidding earlier,” she says.  She sits up straight and meets his eye.  “You can do whatever you want, so you don’t have to pretend to be all pure at me.”

 

“I-- what are you talking about?” He shuts the drawer with a clatter. 

 

“We’re a couple, right?” she asks.  “So why haven’t we fucked yet?”

 

Gar splutters something incomprehensible before sliding down to sit on the floor.

 

“Look, I get that you’re trying to be nice to me by putting it off,” she says.  “But I really, really don’t care what you do.  Treat yourself.  Whatever.  I love it.”

 

“I.  Um.  Th-- thank you?  But…”

 

“We can do it right now, if you want.  Or, just hand stuff?  That might be easier if we’re short on time.”  She shrugs.  “I can do oral, a couple different positions for regular sex but I’m better on the bottom, I can, uh, let’s see…”

 

Gar just stares at her in abject horror.

 

“Haven’t really got big tits, sorry ‘bout that, but I’m pretty bendy.  Haven’t tried anal yet, but if you’re up for that I--”

 

Gar laughs nervously.  “This is going really fast?  I, uh, I didn’t know bottle caps were _that_ exciting, but I guess…”

 

Tara doesn’t call him stupid.  She doesn’t even roll her eyes.  “If you’re not up for it today, that’s cool.  Tomorrow’s fine too.”  She just wants to get the first time over with.  Then, she’ll know what she’s dealing with.  He can’t be this much of a wimp, right?

 

“I’m, uh,” he stares at the floor.  “Not today or tomorrow, but maybe some other time?  You kind of sprung it on me just now.”

 

Tara nods.  She didn’t spring it on him _just now_.  It was implied earlier.  He’s being a baby.  “Tell me whatever you wanna do, and we can do it when you’re okay with it.  Don’t worry.  It’s not a big deal.”  She smiles and hopes that this will make him less terrified.

 

“Well,” he says, completely seriously.  “I always did want to eat guacamole out of a butthole.”

 

She’s never heard of anyone wanting to do that, ever.  Still, can’t count it out.  “Sure,” she says, hoping that he’s kidding.

 

She has never seen anybody look so viscerally upset in her life.

 

At least he’s kidding.

\---

She swings her legs carelessly from the edge of the fossilized conveyor belt.  Her stomach is in a knot.  She knows Slade is angry, but she’s not sure what he’s angry _about._   She doesn’t know what to deny.  She’s been following instructions.  She’s been plenty cute, and she knows that her public image has been great.  She’s been getting fan letters.  Everyone gets fan letters, but hers have been even more positive lately; congratulations and wishes for the future and the occasional flowery poem.  She’s been having a great time with everyone.  She’s even let Slade see her have a couple of positive interactions with Raven (although not too many, because… because).

 

“Please explain,” Slade says calmly.  He’s standing, which is why she’s decided to sit on top of something fairly tall.  He’s a little less intimidating when she doesn’t have to look up to make eye contact with him.

 

“Yesterday, a kid named Jane sent a picture of me kissing Gar.  She drew it in crayon.  It was adorable,” Tara says.  She wants to throw up.

 

“Did she also send a picture of you two having anal sex?”

 

“No.  She was like, eight,” Tara says.  She feels sweat beading on her forehead.  She was supposed to ask about that, wasn’t she?  She’s been good.

 

“What kind of image have you been trying to cultivate?” Slade asks, moving a little closer and resting his hand on the conveyor belt.  “Not just for the public, but also for your ‘teammates.’”

 

“Oh my god,” Tara says as the realization dawns on her.  “I told Myrna that Gar was my first kiss, and then I went and told Gar that I…”  She swallows and takes a deep breath.  The nausea is getting worse.

 

“What _did_ you tell Gar?” Slade asks, still perfectly calm.

 

“I, um…”  For some reason, Tara feels a blush creeping up her neck.  She wills it to stop.  She doesn’t deserve to be embarrassed about this.  “I told him all the, uh…” she giggles involuntarily.  What is she doing?  “I told him all the sex stuff I knew how to do.” She clutches the edge of the conveyor belt tightly.  “I hadn’t thought about it at all.  I’m so sorry.”

 

“’Sorry’ doesn’t undo your mistake, Tara.”  Slade rests his free hand on her shoulder, then squeezes.  “What are you going to do to fix it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Tara says.  “I can’t tell him that I was kidding earlier.  He won’t-- he won’t believe me, and I can’t let him think that I’m a liar anyway, because… oh my god, I--"

 

“If sex was going to be involved, you were supposed to let it happen naturally,” Slade says, leaning in further and pushing her back slightly.  She squeezes her eyes shut, out of instinct.  “Tell me, are you a prostitute?”

 

“I’m not,” Tara says quietly.  “I was stupid.”

 

“Then why did you give him a list of services?  You’re a public figure, you know,” Slade says.  “You have an image to uphold.”  He’s still so calm.  His fingers are digging into her shoulder.  “Give me a reason not to beat the shit out of you right now.”

 

Tara takes a deep, painful breath, then she opens her eyes.  “They’ll see the bruises,” she says.  “The Titans.  And that’s going to make them even more suspicious.”

 

For some reason, Slade smiles.  “Perfect,” he says, and his grip loosens.

 

“Wait,” Tara says.  Her heart still feels like it’s about to burst out of her chest.  Like in _Alien._   How is she able to think about movies right now?  Shit.  Shit.  “Aren’t you mad at me?  Why aren’t you hitting me right now?” she asks.

 

“You gave me a good reason not to.  And of course I’m not mad,” Slade says.  “You didn’t think before you spoke earlier, and it worried me.”

 

Tara sits there in stunned silence for a few seconds.  Was what she just saw _not_ anger?  What the fuck was it, then?

 

“I’m sorry,” Tara repeats.  “I’ll try to be less impulsive.  Wouldn’t… wouldn’t want to give you any more gray hairs.”  She grins.

 

“Don’t push it,” Slade replies, even though he’s smiling slightly.  “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

 

She laughs and leans in for a kiss, and he reciprocates.

 

“Gar won’t know what hit him,” Tara says.  “Hell, I’ll make him feel bad for being shocked.”

 

“That’s my girl.”

\---

After, Tara spends five minutes in the bathroom throwing up, thirty seconds hyperventilating, and then another ten minutes trying to fix her “hit by a truck” face with the makeup she found in Donna’s dresser.

 

She goes home to the Tower in high spirits.

\---

_It was supposed to be pretty routine, actually.  It wasn’t anything they hadn’t done before._

_Markovia was a rocky country: full of towering mountains with jagged edges.  It made sense to go out into the hills to practice.  The only strange thing about that afternoon was that Brion had tagged along, chattering happily about a movie he’d seen the other day._

_Dr. Jace had her notebooks and her gadgets and her whatevers-- scientist stuff.  They had the stuff to measure Tara’s heartrate and blood oxygen levels and all that jazz.  It was normal.  They’d been at it for years, and it was normal, and nothing should have gone wrong._

_Markovia was a hollow country: full of mines and caverns like the veins in a body.  That was its livelihood.  Without the ores in those mines (iron, nickel, aluminum), such a weak country would never have survived.  So the people of that country were always, always chipping away at its guts.  They took precautions.  There were scaffolds and methane detectors.  The labor laws were fair, and the amount of land used for mining was well-regulated._

_Tara wasn’t something anybody had thought to take precautions against._

_In a hollow country, sometimes there are caverns and mines where you can’t see them.  When the only things protecting teams of laborers are scaffolds and methane detectors, a shift in weight distribution from overhead can be lethal._

_Scaffolds buckled.  Stopes collapsed.  The ground made a noise like a sleeping giant._

_When human error causes the earth to tremble, it’s called “induced seismicity.”_

_Tara ran._

 

_\------_

__

_(if ya think he's straight ya really haven't been with him for a while)_

_\------_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this in a fevered panic last week. I didn't sleep that night.
> 
> The next day, I brought a printout to class and my friend nearly died, so there's something. Now she wants me to make more of them. Donna doesn't mean any harm she just really doesn't want another Roy situation on her hands. 
> 
> The game Tara keeps playing on the computer is Manic Miner (look up some playthroughs of the original, they'll give you a hell of a headache). I stand by the idea that if a villain doesn't announce their name immediately after appearing, and the hero who fights them doesn't name them first, the media will name them (hence "Abomination Boy" and "The Columba Quintet"). If the villain doesn't like that name, tough luck. That's why it's important to announce yourself before robbing a bank.
> 
> Sprite Pepsi is the property of Griffin McElroy
> 
> **UP NEXT:** Maureen is a Lady Pervert, I Swear. Someone tells a lie. Dogsuit Jenny takes on America.
> 
> i̯̱͔̙̲͝͡ ̶̸̝̗̝̭̟̼̱ͅẉ̴̢̩̩̮͍̹̼̟a̷̳͔̠̯̭͚̻̗͢ͅn̵̗̦̩̩ţ͔͈̗̘̖͔͎ ̢̹̲̲̼̥̙̯t̯̲̱͍̭̯̩o͚͈̱̲̥̳̳̤̝ ̭̼̬̼̩̳̲ͅk̢͈̪͉͡͝ͅ ͙͖͔͔͖̟̗͢į̪̙̤̫̩͚̞̜̻s̼̕s̛͚͔̙̗͎̘͜ ̶̵͈̣͖͍̻͎̲͠c̸̷̼͚̙͇̯̥u͖͇̼̖͚͎̘̕͠t̴̲̰̩̞͓͖̮̹͢͜e̢͍͍͉̦ ҉̶͔̭̬g͈͉͝i͙͘ͅr̥̞̗̣͈l̡̥͍͉͇̜̥s̷̨͔͘ ̸̢̱̻͈͞ͅa͏̸͈͖̱͖̮n͍͔̬̪̭͝d̪͕ ͖̘̝̗p̨̻̞̠͜͜ṷ̬̗n̡̰͎̭͘i̯̱̘̻̬͢ͅͅs̷̶̥͕̠h̴̡̧̖͍͖̣͈ͅ ̧̛̦͈̦s̼̥͈l̛͔͖͕̗͢͝a̶̸͙̙̹͉̦̜͕̹̦d̸̫͙͓̯͍͚͝e͔̻̬͓̼ͅ ̶͖̞̩̻̣̜͚̪͝w̴̩͚̙̪̠̣i̬̙̩̖̺̫̗l̶̵̷͉͚̯̙̳̗̘̣ṣ͟͝o̡̖̫̪̘n̦̱͢  
> ̯͎̦͎̥p̛͓̲͉ḷ̨̢̧͎̯ę͝͏̹̠a̶̧̞̪̺̗̼̟͙͙̥s̘̯͍͔̫͉̮ͅ ̼͎̖̼̕͠e̗͞ ̢̤̪͙̺̘̱f̻͈̝͇͈̲̠͡e̵̯͓͖̙̺̙̫̹̜͘͜e̛̻͖̝͔̣̻̘͍d̢̖ ̴̶͕̼͔̪m̢̝̯͈̮̮̖̗e̢̲̥̬͇  
> ̶̶͚̭͈͙͇͇̱̲t̵͖̻͙̫̺̭̜h̦͚̯̱͝ͅa͕͈̺n͙̖̜̟̦͍̤̞̟k͚͇̜͞s̴̫̻̦͙͈ ͏̝̲̹̺<̡̛̖̝̹3̶̣͓̪̗̲͇̱̹


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